


Clandestine Affairs

by writeonclara



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Angry Sex, Brief description of an injury, Crepes, Enemies to Lovers, Fighter Aziraphale, First Kiss, First Time, Historical, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mission Fic, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Regency, Romance, Sexual Tension, battles, mentions of period typical homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-09-26 21:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20396449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeonclara/pseuds/writeonclara
Summary: “Howdareyou!” Aziraphale shouts.“It’s not personal!” the demon shouts back, peeking around the edge of the bookshelf. Aziraphale flings a blessing at him, but he jerks back before it can land. “I wasassignedto you.”“I’ll smite you back to Hell, you—you—snake!”“Funny you should say that,” the demon mutters, before lifting his voice again. “Or how about we carry on what we’re doing andnotattract the attention from Downstairs, yeah? Or Upstairs, for that matter.”Or: Aziraphale has been assigned to secureThe Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. He really shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Hell had an agent of their own assigned tohim.Luckily for him, Crowley is adreadfulspy.





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale picks up the letter that had just appeared on the table with one hand, fussing with his coat sleeve with the other. He unfolds it, skimming the first lines.

**DATE: 20 April 1816**

**TO: Principality Aziraphale**

**FROM: Archangel Gabriel **

**SUBJECT: In re Desdemona Device**

There’s a knock at his door that prevents him from finishing the memo. Startled, he folds the thick paper and tucks it into an inner pocket. Now who could that be? He isn’t expecting any company, and if Gabriel or another angel deigned to visit him, they would just stroll into the house uninvited. Frowning, Aziraphale crosses the room to his front door. 

A properly dressed gentleman stands outside, valise in one hand. His auburn hair is combed to the side in the neat style identifying him as one of the staff. Strangely, though, his eyes are covered by a pair of darkened spectacles.

“Er, hi,” says Aziraphale, then winces slightly to himself. “I mean, may I help you?”

The man’s expression is quietly serious. “I have been engaged to be your new valet.”

Aziraphale stares blankly at him for a moment, then snaps his fingers. “Ah, that’s right.” Part of fitting in with the _ton_ meant that, in order to not look unforgivably eccentric, he needed a full staff to manage his house. A new valet must be part of the package deal. He considers sending him away—the last thing Aziraphale needs is to constantly be tripping over a valet—but then again, _not_ having a valet could be much worse. He can’t just stroll out of his room every morning, perfectly dressed, without any help. That would eventually raise some eyebrows. He sighs to himself. This assignment was becoming far more trouble than it was worth.

“But of course. Do come in.” Aziraphale steps to the side, smiling kindly.

“Thank you, sir,” says the man, executing a neat bow. “My name is Crowley.”

“Crowley? That’s an unusual name.”

Crowley doesn’t smile. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have much of an expression at all.

“Right! Er, pleased to meet you. I’m A—bel Fell,” says Aziraphale, floundering for a second, and then grimaces to himself. Oh good heavens. _Abel Fell_. “Let me just—show you to your rooms.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Aziraphale couldn’t make drastic changes to the staff quarters without attracting attention, but he did what he could to make the rooms liveable, if not comfortable, and made sure each member of his staff got their own private room. The beds are the perfect combination of soft and firm, and have new, clean linen that smell faintly of lavender. Each room is warm and well-lit, despite not being equipped with individual fireplaces. As a result, his staff turnover is quite low, and loyalty is quite high, even this early into his stay in London.

Crowley stops just outside the room, cocking his head to the side. The corner of his mouth flickers a bit as if he were suppressing a smile.

“Is it not to your liking?” asks Aziraphale, clasping his hands together fretfully.

“It is quite adequate, sir,” says Crowley, setting his valise down by the entrance. “Thank you.”

“Oh, certainly.” Aziraphale backs out of the room, still smiling. “Well, I’ll let you get settled in. Do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” Except that’s wrong—Crowley is his valet, which means he’d be the one helping Aziraphale. Aziraphale quickly shuts the door before he can make a further mess of things.

Letting out a deep breath, Aziraphale makes his way into the drawing-room, relaxing back into the chair close to a window and next to a sleek black piano. What Michael thinks he’s to do with a sleek black piano is beyond him. He draws Gabriel’s letter from his pocket and holds it under the patch of sunlight.

**Our most recent lead points to Desdemona Device as the current holder of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_. As this is the only known copy in circulation—**

Aziraphale huffs. As if _Gabriel_ needs to tell him the importance of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies. _Aziraphale_ was the one who told Heaven about them, after all.

**—it is imperative that we retrieve the copy before the Other Side—**

At the door, someone clears his throat.

“Oh good heavens!” Aziraphale yelps, jumping in surprise.

“My apologies, sir,” says Crowley, failing to look the least bit apologetic. He stands woodenly just inside the room, arms folded tightly behind his back. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Aziraphale quickly folds the letter again, returning it to his coat pocket. “It’s quite alright. May I help you? You, er, unpacked rather quickly.”

Crowley tips his head in acknowledgement. The man certainly is stoic. Aziraphale has never seen a human hold themselves so stiffly before. The other members of the staff had warmed up to Aziraphale instantaneously. Even his chef, a prickly man from the country known for his skill with a goose, had a soft spot for Aziraphale and would often sneak him extra mince pies. Crowley, however, seems set on keeping his distance.

“Would you like something to drink, sir?” Crowley asks.

“We-ell, I wouldn’t say no to a glass of wine,” says Aziraphale. Then, struck by a brilliant idea, he says, “Why don’t you bring two glasses?”

Crowley’s face remains placid, but Aziraphale could have sworn he’d seen his eyebrow wiggle, as if it wanted to lift but was viciously suppressed. “Are you expecting company, sir?”

“No no,” says Aziraphale, bracing his hands on his knees. “I was thinking—if you’re not too busy, maybe you’d like to share a glass with me?”

Ah, yes. His eyebrow definitely did twitch, then. “That’s hardly appropriate, sir.”

Right. Of course. “How silly of me,” says Aziraphale, sinking back into his chair, and rather wishing it would swallow him. 

After Crowley disappears from the room, Aziraphale exhales a slow breath. He hadn’t intended on making any overtures, or doing anything _unseemly_, but he still struggles with the human’s notion of class. Or, rather—in Heaven, Aziraphale isn’t exactly _high ranked_. In fact, if he were to equivocate his own status to the human’s class system, he’d be working class. And while he’s quite fond of the fashion and food, and much else about the era, he’s not all that keen about his new status of _quality_. It makes him feel like he’s punching above his station. 

Blast this assignment. Would that he could finish it soon, so he could go back to his original plans. 

Sighing, he draws out the letter from his pocket and unfolds it.

**Desdemona Device will be attending a ball at Adderbury House in Grosvenor Square. Enclosed is your invitation to the ball. Make her acquaintance. Befriend her. Get your hands on that book. And make sure the Other Side doesn’t get to it, first.**

Aziraphale taps the memo against his lips. What Gabriel failed to acknowledge is just how hard it would be to befriend someone in possession of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_. He understands the need for discretion: Agnes Nutter would certainly warn Desdemona if a whole army of angels tried to descend upon her to steal the book. On the other hand, they had to hope that Agnes Nutter either a) didn’t think Aziraphale’s arrival in Desdemona’s life was important enough to report, b) believed that her not knowing about him would be crucial to some hereto unknown future event, or c) never predicted him in the first place. In other words, it’s a high-risk operation. But of course Gabriel doesn’t care about those types of details. 

_Get the book,_ he says, and so Aziraphale is to get the book.

He should probably feel guiltier about this mission than he actually does, but—The Book. _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_. The _Book_. When he’d heard rumors that some random angel had stumbled over a legitimate lead about The Book’s location, Aziraphale had marched straight into Heaven and demanded to be put on the case. He had an actual, potential opportunity to _finally_ study The Book, and there was no way he was going to let just any lowly angel steal the march on _him_. They would certainly bungle it all up somehow.

Crowley reappears, balancing a tray with a bottle of Madeira and—two glasses. Aziraphale straightens up, pleasantly surprised. 

“Oh!” he says as Crowley pours wine into the glasses. He hands one to Aziraphale, then stiffly sits in the chair across from him. 

“Well, cheers!” says Aziraphale cheerfully, holding the glass up to Crowley. It takes a moment, but Crowley taps his glass against the side of Aziraphale’s lightly, then brings it up to his lips.

Aziraphale takes a sip of his wine, eyelashes fluttering slightly. Oh, that _is_ rather excellent. Humans really can be quite brilliant. He sets his glass down again, then smiles brightly at Crowley. Here’s a perfect opportunity for Aziraphale to practice ‘befriending’ someone. “Forgive me if I’m being terribly rude, but I’ve never seen spectacles quite like those before. Are they for medical purposes?”

“Yes, sir. I have a sensitivity to light,” says Crowley.

The thing about Crowley’s voice is that it seems—off. Impassive, but like he’s _trying_ to sound impassive. There’s a suppressed vitality about him Aziraphale can sense, humming just under his skin. Perhaps when he’s with his friends, he ‘lets loose’ a bit. 

“I am sorry to hear, but your spectacles are quite nice,” says Aziraphale, with a warm smile.

“Thank you, sir,” says Crowley flatly, then lifts his glass back to his lips.

That bashed out, conversation fizzles, then dies. Aziraphale can’t understand it. Usually humans are all too eager to open up to him. Sometimes he can’t even get a word in edgewise. This doesn’t bother him—he likes to listen. Not so with Crowley. Aziraphale regrets opening the bottle now; he’d hate for it to go to waste, but he also doesn’t want to keep Crowley here against his will. The valet isn’t warming up to him in the slightest.

“Well,” says Aziraphale, after quickly finishing his drink. “I suppose I should head in. To bed, I mean. You may finish the bottle, if you’d like. With the rest of the staff. To, er, make some friends.” Like Aziraphale was failing miserably at doing. Like he shouldn’t even be trying to do, since Crowley is his employee. 

Bah. Who is he, Gabriel? He can be friends with with employees. Just, apparently, not with Crowley.

Crowley leans forward to set his empty wineglass on the tray, then gets to his feet. Aziraphale blinks. He wonders, for one wild moment, if Crowley took that as some sort of invitation. Just what _did_ valets get up to in this day and age?

Valet. Right. That means that Crowley is supposed to help Aziraphale in and out of his clothing. Somehow, this is nearly as bad as accidentally extending an invitation to him. For Aziraphale, undressing meant snapping his fingers and going from a full suit to nightclothes, or vice versa. Letting Crowley undress him feels like it would be unbearably intimate. And honestly, he has _no idea_ how involved valets are supposed to be in the whole undressing business. Do they stick around while their employers get completely nude? It seems rather too much for prudish people of this era, but humans are nothing if not contradictory. Which means Aziraphale will have to make an Effort and manifest the appropriate organs. Dash it, having a valet is far more work than he’d anticipated.

It isn’t until they step into the room that Aziraphale remembers that, up until this point, all of his furniture is just for show. Panicking, he blinks, and his armoire and closets are abruptly overflowing with clothing for every occasion. There’s a quiet _fwump_ as his furniture abruptly goes from empty to full, and Crowley looks around in faint surprise.

“You know these old houses,” says Aziraphale, with a strained chuckle. “Always making odd noises. Settling, you know.” He takes a seat at the foot of his bed, twisting his fingers together and watches as, after a brief pause, Crowley briskly acquaints himself with Aziraphale’s room. 

A moment later, Crowley lays out a nightshirt and dressing gown next to Aziraphale, and then crouches by his feet to remove his boots. Aziraphale stares at the top of his head. Why could the registry have not sent him a doddering old valet? Why did they have to send him a—a _Crowley_?

The boots, as it turns out, are not the problem. After Crowley has pulled them off and set them carefully to the side, he touches Aziraphale’s elbow. Aziraphale dutifully gets to his feet.

Crowley’s fingers deftly unbutton the front of his waistcoat. That done, he steps behind him to slide it from his shoulders, one finger brushing against Aziraphale’s jaw. Something like a bolt of lightning strikes him, cracking down his spine. Crowley’s hand flinches, and Aziraphale twists around to stare at him, wide-eyed. 

“Ah,” he says.

Crowley turns away to hang his coat, giving Aziraphale a moment to collect himself. What in the hell was that? 

Then Crowley is back, lifting one of Aziraphale’s arms to work at the finicky buttons on Aziraphale’s shirt sleeve. His fingers brush against the inside of his wrist, and there isn’t a second crack of electricity, but rather a lingering hum that travels straight into Aziraphale’s core. 

_But—a human?_ he thinks.

Crowley makes no indication that he feels anything at all, just moves to Aziraphale’s other wrist, and then starts on the buttons on the front of his shirt. Aziraphale dearly hopes he can’t feel how wildly his heart is thundering against his ribs.

Shirt done, Aziraphale is left, bare-foot and topless, in nothing but his breeches.

Neither of them seem to know what to do at this point. Aziraphale considers dismissing him for the night, but he has no idea if this is the right thing to do, and Crowley’s spectacles are giving nothing away. Uncertainly, he lifts his own hands to the top of his breeches. Crowley turns away to get his nightshirt. Feeling both foolish and vulgar, Aziraphale peels off his breeches and is, quite suddenly, very, very naked.

“Oh, bugger me,” he thinks he hears Crowley mutter.

Aziraphale glances over his shoulder, surprised. Somehow, Crowley’s normal wooden expression is even more severe, like he’s been carved from stone. Aziraphale blinks. “What was that?”

“A button has come free,” says Crowley. “From your waistcoat. I will have it mended for you, sir.”

“Oh dear. Thank you.”

Crowley picks up Aziraphale’s nightshirt, holding it up to him. Aziraphale can’t tell with those spectacles, but he’s fairly certain his eyes are fixed squarely on Aziraphale’s face. Which likely means he’s missed his mark on just how naked he’s supposed to get in front of his valet. _Bother_. All that Effort just to get it completely wrong. And now that he’s exposed himself (_ha_) as being embarrassingly eccentric, he’ll have to keep at it, or risk exposing himself in other ways. Refusing to blush, he takes his nightshirt and pulls it over his head.

Crowley holds up his dressing gown, helping him shrug into it, and then circles around Aziraphale to tie the belt. His hands are completely steady, but from this angle, with his head bowed, Aziraphale can see that the tips of his ears are red.

“Er, thank you,” Aziraphale murmurs. His chest feels oddly tight.

Crowley nods. “Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Crowley.”

After the door clicks quietly shut behind him, Aziraphale totters over to his bed, then flops down on it, face first.

* * *

Aziraphale hadn’t actually meant to sleep, but the next thing he knows, his door is creaking open again, and he’s startling awake, still in the position he’d thrown himself into the night before. He rolls over onto his back and pushes himself up, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand. Crowley is stood at the door, holding a tray laden with buttery cheeses, flaky breads, cold cuts, and a variety of fruits and jams.

“Good heavens,” says Aziraphale, blinking sleepily. There’s no way he can finish all that. “Won’t you join me?”

Crowley’s expression doesn’t change, but the tray rattles faintly, like he’d suffered a minor earthquake. 

It’s then Aziraphale realizes _just_ how that sounds. Flushing hotly, he quickly adds, “For breakfast, I mean. Not, er, in b—” He stops himself with a click of teeth. Oh, wonderful job, Aziraphale. First he gets starkers in front of the fellow, and now he’s ostensibly invited him into bed. At this rate, he’s going to get himself thrown in prison, or possibly hanged. He slides a hand down his face in frustration. Humans and their nonsensical bigotry.

Crowley says nothing. He crosses the room and sets the tray on the breakfast table, then pulls out the chair for Aziraphale. Well, at least he hasn’t quit in a fit of pique yet. And Aziraphale was supposed to be the one who was _good_ at blending in with human society. With a sigh, he climbs out of bed and shuffles over to the table, dropping into the chair.

Crowley hesitates for a moment, then circles around the table, and takes the chair across from him.

The nervous tension that had been squeezing Aziraphale’s chest abruptly loosens. He beams at Crowley. “Oh, thank you. I wouldn’t want all this food to go to waste.”

Crowley nods, and then waits for Aziraphale to serve himself before making a small plate for himself.

Again, they sit in silence, which Aziraphale then decides to fill by prattling on about his old friend, William Shakespeare. Not that he can mention that prior acquaintance, but the Bard is a safe topic to chat about at least. It doesn’t even occur to him that perhaps Crowley never had the opportunity to read Shakespeare until Crowley says, a little unexpectedly, “I’ve always preferred his comedies.”

Aziraphale promptly stops talking, surprised by this sudden opinion. But that’s all Crowley seems to have to say on the matter. He’s gone back to the food and, after some consideration, selects a bright red apple.

After finishing his breakfast, Aziraphale lingers over his tea, but he can only manage to drag it out for a quarter of an hour before it begins to get awkward. More awkward. He sets his cup to the side and rises to his feet. A moment later, and Crowley follows.

This time, Crowley doesn’t hesitate at all to help Aziraphale out of his dressing gown, although when he gets to Aziraphale’s nightshirt, his hands hover for a lingering moment. 

“Er, I can—” says Aziraphale, the back of his neck prickling with embarrassment. Damn. He really has cocked this up spectacularly.

“No, sir,” says Crowley, then helps Aziraphale pull the nightshirt over his head, knuckles brushing against Aziraphale’s sides, surprisingly cold. The skin on his stomach shivers in response. 

And then he is, once again, naked.

Crowley turns away to pick out a pair of breeches, then holds them out for Aziraphale. Bracing himself with one hand on Crowley’s shoulder, he steps into the breeches and tries not to think about how Crowley’s face is pointed towards his, well, with his Effort. For heaven’s sake, sex had never held much interest for him in the past. How could it possibly be on his mind so insistently _now_? And with one of the staff—a _human_. He never thought of himself as the kind of being who would thrill at a power imbalance—that seemed far more Gabriel’s purview. 

And yet. Just like the night before, there’s an undeniable energy crackling between them.

_A human,_ thinks Aziraphale, dismayed.

“Thank you,” he croaks. He clears his throat and lifts his arms as Crowley helps him with his shirt. 

It must be the oddly domestic intimacy, this attraction to Crowley. Angels, on a whole, are not very tactile creatures, but Aziraphale has never really been all that good at being an angel, and it has been a dreadfully long time since he’s been touched. And these actions of dressing and undressing—it’s easy to fool himself into thinking he’s being cared for.

* * *

The turn of the 19th century is an explosion of entertainment. In the days leading up to the ball, Aziraphale joins White’s (with the help of a minor miracle), where he acquaints himself with the aristocracy and is immediately accepted due to his apparent fortune (and another minor miracle). Subsequently, he tumbles headlong into London society. He’s invited to a truly excellent opera, and a not so excellent drama in the theatre. He’s invited to another ball, and a masquerade, and countless loo parties. He even purchases—or rather, miracles up—a neat black barouche with two placid mares and a somewhat befuddled man to drive it. Without even meaning to, he’s been swept up into the insatiable forward momentum of London society, and he’s never had so much fun in his life.

And then every night, he returns to his house to find Crowley waiting for him, no matter what the hour, and his nimble fingers are always so gentle as they undress him, and by the time he’s lying in his bed, sleepless, his entire body shakes with a nameless need.

And then every morning, he gets up to Crowley waiting for him at the door, with a tray full of enough food for two. Aziraphale has taken to prattling on about his adventures in London, but Crowley doesn’t seem to mind. He always listens intently, if quietly, and will sometimes even offer up a thoughtful remark here and there.

And then the tray is set to the side, and in no time at all Crowley’s hands are on him again, and Aziraphale is forced to remind himself that Crowley is just doing his job, that his hands _don’t_ linger, that he’s _not_ actually being cared for, despite what his lonely heart keeps trying to tell him.

The morning before the ball, Aziraphale considers heading Upstairs to gather more information about Desdemona Device and his mission, but, really, it’s a beautiful day, and he’d rather not ruin it by talking to Gabriel. Instead he decides to waste the day by walking around the London: first, through the Park, then deeper into the city until he comes upon a familiar building. It’s been miraculously empty for the past two years. Aziraphale stands in front of the shop, tipping his head back to examine the facade. He can easily picture it, the gold lines neatly printing out AZ FELL AND Co. across the dusty windows, his least desirable books on display, covers barely readable under a thick layer of dust, a sign flipped to closed during usual business hours.

As a rule, angels aren’t supposed to covet, but oh, does he _covet_. He’s been unmoored for so long; all he wants is a place to call his own. The house Michael had set up for him for this mission is hardly what he could call a _home_. It’s too big for one person, too impersonal. It isn’t his to clutter up with his collection of books, because that could potentially interfere with his mission.

“Foolish,” he murmurs to himself, and heads back to the house to prepare for the ball.

* * *

Crowley is waiting for him when he gets home, an evening outfit already laid out for him on the bed. Aziraphale glances it over, cursory. In all honesty, Crowley has a far better eye for modern fashion than Aziraphale does—perks of being a human, he supposes.

Per usual, Crowley’s expression is blank, but the set of his thin lips communicate the grim determination of a soldier ready to go to battle. Aziraphale rolls his lips together guiltily. 

It’s only been two damn weeks, and it’s already becoming a thing. This is highly inappropriate behavior, and over a _human_. What on Earth is it about Crowley that draws Aziraphale to him so?

“Crowley, I—I can dress myself,” says Aziraphale, softly. “It’s no trouble, really.”

Crowley freezes. Some emotion flashes over his face so fast that Aziraphale can’t put a name to it. Disappointment? 

Relief?

“Sir—” says Crowley.

“It makes you uncomfortable, I can tell,” says Aziraphale, smiling gently at him. “I won’t have that.”

Crowley’s eyebrows lower, just a fraction, and the corners of his lips curl down. “A white waistcoat, I believe,” says Crowley, clearly deciding to ignore him. “You favor pastels, I know, but it won’t do for a ball.”

“Ah,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley crosses the room to him, putting Aziraphale in mind of a panther stalking its prey. He stops in front of Aziraphale, so close that Aziraphale has to tip his head back, just slightly, to look him in the eye. Or rather, in the lenses of his spectacles.

“Do you wish me to leave,” Crowley murmurs, “sir?”

“Oh, _hell_,” says Aziraphale. He swallows thickly, then tears his eyes away, raking his fingers through his hair. “No,” he admits, on a breath.

Crowley stares down at him a moment longer, then turns away. Aziraphale sucks in a deep, shuddery breath and exhales it through his nose.

One would think that the number of times Crowley has undressed him would dull him to the experience, but instead it appears to be having the opposite effect. By the time Crowley has finished undressing him, his entire body feels electrified, and he has to use every ounce of his incredible will to keep down the insistent erection. The problem is, it’s all too easy to imagine those clever fingers wrapped around his cock and—he is putting a stop to _that_ thought right now. It doesn’t help that before Crowley lowers the breeches for him to step into, he pauses, just for a fraction of a second, leaving Aziraphale with the impression that he would dearly like to throw Aziraphale onto the bed and have his wicked way with him. Although perhaps that’s just Aziraphale’s lonely, overwrought imagination.

Dressing is, in some ways, far, far worse than undressing. At least when he’s being undressed, Crowley doesn’t stop to brush out a wrinkle on his shoulder, or smooth his hand down his back. It isn’t a caress—he’s not so naive that he can’t tell the difference between the smoothing of a wrinkle and a _caress_—but his mind keeps wanting to _think_ it is. Worse, dressing takes _forever_. Buckles, ties, cravats, and dozens upon dozens of finicky buttons. Dressing as a human would be unbearably tedious if it weren’t for Crowley’s deft fingers finding every hidden feature of his coat.

After what feels like ten and a half years of exquisite torture, Aziraphale is finally dressed, although he rather wishes he weren’t. He reaches up to tug irritably at his collar.

“Please do not do that, sir,” says Crowley.

“These collars,” Aziraphale huffs, “are ridiculous.”

“You look perfectly adequate, sir.”

Aziraphale turns to him. He has to turn his entire body to face him, since the height and stiffness of his collar prevents him from moving his head. Crowley takes a step back to give him some space. “I take that to mean I look perfectly dashing,” says Aziraphale, flashing a grin at him. There’s no reaction. He’s not sure why he was expecting one.

But then Crowley reaches up and tweaks one of Aziraphale’s curls. “Just so, sir.”

Something in Aziraphale’s chest drops into his stomach. He blinks rapidly, lips parting slightly.

“I hope you have a pleasant time at the ball this evening, sir,” says Crowley, and then leaves the room.

* * *

Crowley’s oddly affectionate gesture stays with Aziraphale all the way Adderbury Court. He doesn’t even recall handing over his card, but quite suddenly he finds himself in the middle of the ball, although he’s not entirely sure how he got there.

He’s late enough that the party is already in full swing and brimming with energetic gaiety. It’s exactly the sort of romp that Gabriel would turn his nose up to, but the kind Aziraphale is fond of. It’s filled with so much human energy and happiness that Aziraphale can feel it course through him—almost like love.

The ballroom is brilliantly lit by the ornate candle fixtures bracketing the French windows that line each wall, and by the two large chandeliers hanging from the high-arched ceilings. He’s come in during the middle of a waltz, and goes to find a wall to prop up until there’s a break in the dancing. The orchestra is quite good, and the dancing is lively and full of laughter. Aziraphale smiles wistfully. He’s always quite liked dancing. Perhaps he should try to learn after he’s completed his mission.

It isn’t until the dance stops and the couples clear off the floor for a break that Aziraphale spots her, propping up the wall opposite his. Desdemona Device.

His knees go a little weak. The is the closest he’s ever been to _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_. Well, by proxy. All he needs to do is butter her up a bit, get and invitation to her house, and then maybe he’ll finally get the opportunity to study the nearly mythical book.

He detours to a refreshment bar to collect two sweating glasses of iced ratafia, brushing past a man with straw-like hair and an ill-fitting suit, then makes his way through the crowd to where he’d last seen Desdemona. As he gets closer, he overhears a conversation between two older women:

“That Desdemona. She’s not terribly handsome, but I hear that she’s quite the heiress! It’s a wonder she’s not yet married.”

“I hear she’d made a brilliant match with Lord Marmaduke Barrington, but it fell through for some reason or another. It’s said that she was the one to call it off, but everyone knows _he_ was the one who wanted out.” 

“At her age, she’ll be lucky if any man besides a fortune hunter will want to marry her. Poor dear.”

Aziraphale tuts to himself. He appreciates the free information, but disapproves of gossip on a whole. According to his dossier on Desdemona Device, she’s only thirty-one years old. Hardly _old_. 

He finds Desdemona where he last saw her, glaring into the crowd. Or rather, the way her face rests naturally gives the impression that she’s frowning. There’s a certain something about her. A—knowingness. It seems to put off her peers, because she’s quite alone, and appears to have been for some time.

She also might be slightly myopic, because she’s keeps squinting into the crowd, eyebrows furrowing in concentration and adding to her general look of irritation. It doesn’t help that her dove gray dress is high-necked and modest, clearly designed to help her blend in with her surroundings, instead of make her stand out in a crowd. Her fixed squint seems to find whatever she was looking for, because her expression suddenly transforms into dark annoyance. Aziraphale follows her gaze to a tall, rakishly handsome gentleman who is currently flirting with a giggling blonde woman.

_Ah, so that’s how it is,_ Aziraphale thinks. He examines the man critically; he’s lean, with shining brunet hair, thin lips, and a sharply-lined face, and is dressed in the style of a Corinthian. If Aziraphale is honest with himself, he can see the appeal.

He sidles up to Desdemona’s side. “Excuse me.”

_Where’s The Book!_ he thinks loudly, but somehow manages not to say.

Desdemona blinks in surprise, then squints over her shoulder, like he might be addressing someone in the wall.

“Would you like some ratafia?” he asks, holding the glass out to her.

Desdemona glances over her other shoulder.

Aziraphale chuckles lightly. “I am speaking to you, ma’am.”

“Oh!” says Desdemona, clearly surprised. She takes the glass with both her hands, then smiles up at him. She has the sort of smile that makes her eyes sparkle with warmth. It’s quite becoming. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

Aziraphale sketches her a polite bow. “I would beg the honor to dance the next cotillion with you, but I’m afraid I’m made of left feet, so I figured ratafia would be the next best option.”

“You figured correctly,” Desdemona says, taking a small sip. “What did you say your name was?”

“Abel Fell.”

“Abel Fell,” says Desdemona, a small crinkle forming between her eyebrows, like she’s trying to place his name. This is the moment—either Agnes Nutter thought it fit to warn her descendent about him in The Book, or she didn’t. He holds his breath, waiting for a flicker of recognition in her brown eyes. But then her expression clears and she shrugs slightly to herself. 

Didn’t, then. Aziraphale exhales a silent breath.

“Desdemona Device,” says Desdemona, shaking hands with him. “Are you new in town?”

“Quite.”

And just like that, the conversation dies.

_Make her acquaintance,_ Gabriel had said. _Befriend her,_ Gabriel had said. As if one could just walk up to someone and say, _Pleased to meet you, we’re friends now._ Crowley has already proven just how successful Aziraphale is at making friends with humans, i.e. not at all. 

“Would you—” Desdemona says, just as Aziraphale says, “I noticed that—”

“Please continue,” says Aziraphale, graciously.

“I was just wondering if you would like to take a turn around the gardens with me?” Desdemona asks, flushing slightly. “Watching people dance when you’re not involved becomes rather tedious after awhile.”

The orchestra has started up another lively song. Aziraphale looks over his shoulder at the dancing couples and finds that the rakish man who Desdemona had been watching is dancing with the giggling blonde for a second time in a row. Aziraphale knows enough about human customs to recognize what that means.

“It would be my greatest pleasure,” says Aziraphale, holding his arm out to her.

* * *

Thankfully, Desdemona doesn’t have the same compunctions as Crowley, and it only takes a minor amount of prodding to get her to open up to him.

“I couldn’t help but notice, my d—uh, ma’am, that your attention was drawn by a certain someone back inside,” Aziraphale says, as they make their way slowly through the elaborate gardens. The brilliance of the full moon miracuously lights their path, although a discerning eye might notice that its angle in the sky isn’t quite right for this degree of illumination. Desdemona, thankfully, does not appear to have a discerning eye.

“Oh,” says Desdemona, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Am I that obvious?”

“No, no, my dear,” says Aziraphale, patting the hand she has rested on his arm reassuringly. “I assure you that no one else took the least bit of notice.”

Desdemona huffs an amused sigh. “I suppose I know what you actually mean.”

“Oh dear,” says Aziraphale, with a sigh. “I’m quite sorry. That came out rather tactlessly.”

“You’re perfectly right, though,” says Desdemona, chewing on her lower lip. “I am quite invisible. To everyone. It is amazing how, once you’re on the shelf, how quickly you’re dismissed.”

“On the shelf forsooth,” Aziraphale huffs. “You’re barely more than a child.”

Desdemona snorts. “I am one-and-thirty. Practically a grandmother.”

“Age is but a number,” says Aziraphale. “You are only as old as you feel. So you’re not married at one-and-thirty—what of it? I assure you, I am considerably older than you, and I am quite alone.”

It’s funny how he’d set out to reassure Desdemona, and instead has made himself sad. He offers a weak smile to her.

Desdemona cocks her head to the side, considering. “From any other man, I would think that you were flirting. But—hm.” Whatever speculations she’d arrived to, she clearly decides to keep them to herself.

“Tell me about your gentleman,” says Aziraphale, quickly.

“Lord Charles Stauton. I’m afraid he’s the one for me,” Desdemona sighs, despondently. “Though I can’t imagine why I would fall for such a—a cad.”

“How can you be so certain?” Aziraphale asks, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” says Desdemona, smiling enigmatically.

“Try me.”

“Let’s just say I have an inside source.”

Aziraphale’s heart thumps. “That’s quite a specific source you have.”

Desdemona slides a suspicious glare at him, pinching her lips shut. He keeps his face as innocent as possible. Damn. This is harder than he anticipated. 

He considers pushing, but decides against it for now. Instead, he holds up his empty glass and shakes it at her. “Care for another drink?”

“You read my mind,” says Desdemona, then grins, as if she’s laughing at her own joke.

* * *

As it turns out, it’s much easier to make someone’s acquaintance if there’s an abundance of alcohol involved. Since neither of them are keen on dancing, they find a spot closest to the beverage station and proceed to drink through half the bar’s contents.

“It’s—it’s quite irritating,” Desdemona is saying, slumping lower on the sofa in an unladylike manner. Some of her curls have escaped from her knot to frame her face. “To feel like your life has been—has been written out for you already.”

“Written out? Like in a book?” says Aziraphale keenly. He’s considerably less drunk than she is, and in an attempt to catch up, he’d tossed back an additional two drinks while procuring new glasses for them. This had alarmed the beverage attendant, but Aziraphale had befuddled him slightly so that he wouldn’t ask any awkward questions.

“Meta—metaph—you know, that one word.”

“Is it, though?”

Aziraphale meant _is it really metaphoric_, but Desdemona clearly interprets his question as _is it really written out_. She shoots a look at him. He can’t tell if she’s glaring or if it’s just her naturally irritated eyebrows. “It’s the curse for all women. There are too many expections. Expectations. Makes it—makes it impossible to be impul—imp—to do something rashly.” She sighs deeply, her eyes tracking someone in the crowd, as if drawn by a magnet. 

Aziraphale hands her a fresh glass of ratafia, then props his chin up on his hand and follows her gaze. “He really is quite handsome, your beau.”

“Not my beau,” says Desdemona bleakly. “I guess I’ll just have to accept that this is the one time she got it wrong.”

“Who?” says Aziraphale eagerly.

“Who what?” 

“Who got it wrong?”

“You know,” says Desdemona. “You really are quite odd.”

Aziraphale huffs a breath. Perhaps he’d gone back for too many refills of ratafia.

“He doesn’t even know I exist,” says Desdemona glumly.

Aziraphale isn’t quite so sure about that. He’s been monitoring Lord Charles Stauton for the past half hour, and has noticed an increase of darkling looks shot in their direction. Or, specifically, in his direction.

“Perhaps,” he says, smiling slightly. He takes his watch from his pocket, glances at the time, and then puts it away again. It’s clear he won’t be getting anymore information out of her, and the night is dying down. “Would you like to go for a drive with me in the Park? Tomorrow morning, if you’re free?”

“I would l-love to,” Desdemona slurs.

* * *

After ensuring that Desdemona has a safe journey home (perhaps overdoing it; her driver had gone a little white after Aziraphale’s Suggestion), Aziraphale stumbles back to his house, humming brightly to himself. At one point a would-be mugger slinks after him, but Aziraphale blesses him so hard that he sits down in the middle of the empty street and bursts into tears. 

Back at the house, he makes a detour to the kitchen, collects four bottles of Madeira, and then cheerfully gets obliterated by himself on his bedroom floor. Tonight was a _resounding_ success. While he might not be able to call her a friend just yet, she was at least _friendly_. He’s done it. It’s only a matter of time before she confides in him about The Book.

His cheerful triumph is tamped down by an uneasy guilt. He’s doing the Right Thing, isn’t he? It doesn’t _feel_ right, befriending Desdemona in order to get to The Book. He thinks about it for approximately five seconds, and then promptly decides not to think about it at all. As Gabriel had said, Heaven needs The Book, which means what he’s doing is Ineffable. Right.

Perhaps—perhaps he should wake Crowley. He might want to share this truly excellent bottle of wine with Aziraphale. And then maybe he’d—perhaps he’d help him undress again. That sounds really quite pleasant.

“That is _wrong_,” he tells himself, sternly, wagging a finger in the air. He doesn’t even need to undress. Or sleep, for that matter. Although sleep does sound quite nice. It takes him a couple of tries, but he finally manages to snap out of his horribly uncomfortable clothing. With a grateful groan, he crawls into his bed, and collapses into his pillows, face first.

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of his door opening, then hurriedly clicking shut again. Pushing himself up on one elbow, he finds Crowley leaning against the door, tray in hand, completely still, his bespectacled eyes pointed directly at—at Aziraphale’s naked body.

“Oh dear,” says Aziraphale. Would that he could snap his clothes on again. Flushing slightly, he sits up, drawing the blankets over his lap. Crowley’s seen him unclothed dozens of times now, but there’s something obscene about being found nude in his bed.

“Am I interrupting,” says Crowley, flatly. “Sir.”

“No no,” says Aziraphale, rubbing his temple to stem the headache pulsing behind his eyes. Sleeping, again? He’s becoming positively slothful. “I’m afraid putting on my nightclothes was just too much of an effort for me last night.”

“An effort,” Crowley repeats. “If you required assistance, I am available to help.”

Aziraphale flushes slightly at the unintentional double entendre. “I got home quite late last night. I would not have wanted to wake you up.”

“It would have been no trouble.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth flinches slightly, but he says nothing. Odd. That one got more of a reaction than almost anything else Aziraphale has said. Perhaps Crowley is unused to receiving compliments? Humans. So unusual. Crowley crosses the room to set the tray down on his table, then turns back to him, folding his arms behind his back. “Would you prefer to dress first or will you be dining in the nude this morning, sir?”

There. _There’s_ the crack of personality Aziraphale keeps getting brief glimpses of. It’s _sarcastic___, and has got a hint of teeth to it.

“In the nude, to be sure,” says Aziraphale, watching him under his eyelashes, a teasing smile curling the corner of his mouth. He’s only said it to see how Crowley would react, if he’d just shut down again or if he’d continue this refreshingly unusual banter.

“I would recommend avoiding any hot beverages then, sir.”

Aziraphale huffs a startled laugh, thrilled. “You’re quite right. There’s a blue dressing gown in my closet. Be a dear and get it for me?”

Again, that slight flinch at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. Oh dear, what had he said this time? He replays his request, and then blushes faintly. “I-I mean—that is—”

Ignoring his stuttering half-apologies, Crowley opens Aziraphale’s closet to search for his robe. 

_Be a dear._ It’s how Aziraphale always speaks, and yet with Crowley it feels like a—a thing.

Aziraphale slides his hands over his face, then through his hair, wiping away a portion of his hangover. He leaves a small amount, since he doesn’t trust his acting abilities enough to emulate a miserable hangover. It would have been the smart thing to do to sober up last night, but now that Crowley’s here, it’s too late.

“Your dressing gown, sir.”

Aziraphale looks up from the contemplation of his hands. Crowley’s holding up his blue dressing gown for him. “Thank you,” he says, getting to his feet. As efficiently as ever, Crowley helps Aziraphale slide into the dressing gown, then ties the belt around his waist. Did his hands linger, just for a heartbeat, over the knot? No, it has to be Aziraphale’s treacherously lonely imagination. 

“Won’t you join me for breakfast?” he asks. The maudlin feeling that comes hand in hand with being hungover convinces him that Crowley will reject him and he’ll have to eat alone, even though he and Crowley have broken fast together every morning he’s been here. But after Crowley pulls his chair out for him, he takes the seat across from Aziraphale without a hint of hesitation.

Aziraphale beams at him, then pours two cups of tea while Crowley makes a plate. Instead of setting the plate in front of himself, however, he stretches across the table to set it in front of Aziraphale, just as Aziraphale hands him his cup of tea. It’s an exact replica of what Aziraphale had eaten the morning before, which meant that Crowley had been watching him closely. The thought makes Aziraphale’s heart thump erratically and his cheeks warm up, just a little.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, picking up a slice of buttered toast and tearing off a small piece.

“Did you enjoy your evening out, sir?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale pauses in lifting the toast to his mouth, surprised. “Er, yes. Quite. It was a very entertaining ball. Lots of, er, dancing.” That he didn’t partake in, since he can’t even manage a two-step.

“I’m given to understand that you’re new in town, sir,” says Crowley, cutting his toast with his knife and fork. “Did you meet anyone new?”

“Oh, yes,” says Aziraphale. “I might have even made a friend.”

“I’m gratified to hear, sir.” Aziraphale watches, fascinated, as Crowley stabs a piece of the toast with his fork and then pops it into his mouth. It’s as if he’s never eaten buttered toast before in his life. “Who?”

Surprised at this interest in his social life, but unwilling to let the conversation die again, Aziraphale sets his fork down to pick up his tea. “A lovely young lady. We’re to go for a drive in the Park this morning.”

“I see,” says Crowley, stabbing another piece of toast with his fork. For a moment, Aziraphale thinks he’s going to ask more questions, but then he shoves the toast in his mouth and chews grimly.

“How about you? Did you enjoy your evening?” Aziraphale asks, not wanting to let the conversation die.

“Yes, sir,” says Crowley, and that’s that. Aziaphale sighs quietly. His fault for asking a yes or no question.

Aziraphale finishes breakfast much quicker than normal, his stomach not settling for anything but a few slices of buttered toast and a strong cup of tea. At least he doesn’t need to feel tired like humans do.

“You’ll want to dress then, for your ride in the Park,” says Crowley, getting to his feet and making his way to Aziraphale’s closet.

“Well, I certainly wasn’t planning on going nude,” says Aziraphale.

He thinks he hears Crowley cough, but it’s hard to tell, what with his head shoved in Aziraphale’s closet. Aziraphale gets to his feet, clumsily plucking at the knot on his belt. Crowley’s tied it infernally tight.

“You would certainly make an impression on your young lady,” says Crowley, laying the outfit he’d chosen for Aziraphale on the bed. He bats Aziraphale’s hands away, unties the belt, and slides the dressing gown off his shoulders. Aziraphale shivers a little, closing his eyes.

_Get a hold of yourself,_ he tells himself, sternly. 

It’s—well, it’s not becoming _easier_, per se, but in a way, it’s almost as if their morning routine has become a well-practiced dance. Aziraphale lifts his right leg without prompting, and Crowley touches his elbow in the same place, every time, when he needs Aziraphale to lift his arm.

“Will you be meeting at her house, sir?” asks Crowley, apropos of nothing, while doing up the front of Aziraphale’s jacket.

“Hm?” says Aziraphale, who had been watching, in a daze, as Crowley’s clever fingers move over his chest.

Crowley lifts his hands to straighten Aziraphale’s collar, his knuckles sliding under Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale swallows thickly. Had that been intentional? It felt intentional. “Your young lady.”

“Er,” says Aziraphale, his mind struggling to keep up with the conversation. Crowley’s fussing with his cravat; apparently unsatisfied with how it’s arranged, he’s now untying it. Aziraphale’s pulse flutters every time Crowley’s fingers brush against his skin. “Yes. I believe so.”

“It’s a lovely day for a drive,” says Crowley. His eyebrows are slightly drawn together in concentration. “Do you have any plans after? Please lift your chin, sir.”

Aziraphale has no idea how he’s supposed to survive being talked at by the normally reticent Crowley while being dressed _and_ slightly hungover. “Ah,” he says, which isn’t quite an answer, but honestly, at the moment he has _no_ idea. All thoughts have flown right out of his mind.

Crowley takes a step back, admiring his work, while Aziraphale stands there and tries not to tremble. 

“Enjoy your morning, sir,” says Crowley, and slips out of the room.

Crowley’s tied his cravat in a perfect trone d’amour, and yet Aziraphale feels slightly strangled, anyway.

* * *

“This,” says Desdemona, “is all your fault.”

Aziraphale’s lips tremble. He coughs to cover a laugh, then climbs out of the barouche to hand her up. “My dear, you look quite fetching.”

She really does, too, for a woman who has one foot in the grave due to a ferocious hangover. She’s clearly made a half-hearted attempt to hide her dark circles, but had completely gave up on her hair. Her black curls are partially tied back in a low knot, but most of them have tumbled free, and half of them are still flat from sleep.

“Do be quiet,” Desdemona groans, taking his hand and flailing up into the barouche. She flops down, draping an arm over her eyes. “I feel positively wretched. Why did I agree to this? I must have gone mad. I am not at all fit for society.”

“For the good company?” says Aziraphale, flashing a grin and clambering back into the barouche.

“_You_,” she growls. “How is it that you’re so—so well-rested?”

“I have excellent fortitude,” says Aziraphale primly.

Desdemona drags the rug from the seat to cover her legs, though it’s quite a temperate morning. She looks rather like she would prefer to drag it over her head. Flattening a crease in the rug, she steals a glance at Aziraphale out of the corner of her eye. “I do want to thank you for inviting me to a drive. That was very kind of you.”

“Oh, I asked you for purely selfish reasons,” Aziraphale says, smiling at her. “It gets quite lonely, rattling around in that big house of mine. Although—” He cuts himself off.

“Although?” she prompts, lifting her eyebrows. 

“Nothing, nothing.”

Desdemona hums knowingly, but doesn’t push it. It’s a quiet morning; since most of society had attended the ball the night before, the Park is emptier than normal. Desdemona isn’t that talkative, preferring to slide lower and lower into her seat, glaring out at the bright morning sunshine and chirping birds fluttering from tree to tree.

Somehow, Aziraphale isn’t all that surprised when they drive nearly smack into Lord Charles Stauton in the Park. It just that kind of morning, where coincidence feels a bit like providence. He’s walking with an elderly woman on his arm, smiling kindly down at her, but when he spots Desdemona sitting with Aziraphale, his look becomes as dark and smoldering as any romance novel hero could wish for. Aziraphale smiles into his hand, watching him with sparkling eyes. Desdemona hasn’t yet noticed him; she’s too busy staring into the distance with the fixed, blank look of one who regrets all her previous night choices. But then she does see him, squinting slightly, and Aziraphale can practically hear a crack from the heavens when their eyes meet.

“Oh, damn me,” Desdemona says, then covers her mouth with one hand, flushing slightly.

Lord Stauton looks as if he would like to come up to their barouche, but the elderly woman tugs him in another direction. He nods politely to Desdemona, shoots a thundering glare at Aziraphale, and they walk on.

“Why me,” Desdemona says, woefully. “Why _him_. He is everything I detest in a man! He’s a gamester, and a—a blade, and an unapologetic flirt!” She flings her hands up in frustration. “And yet, apparently, he’s The One.” She lowers her hands again and twists them on her lap. “I have no idea how I developed such wretched taste.”

“My dear, why are you so certain he’s The One?” Aziraphale asks, gently.

Desdemona sighs. “I’ve just always known. And yet, upon meeting him—or rather, upon him blowing into society like a typhoon, I can’t imagine why.”

“You’ve always known?” asks Aziraphale innocently.

Desdemona shoots him a look. “Yes,” she says flatly.

Not yet, then. “He doesn’t have to be. The One, I mean.”

“But he does!” She twists the ring on her finger in an agitated manner. “Do you know, despite what the gossip says, I have had no more than four extremely brilliant proposals? And I’ve had to turn each of them down, and for what—for _him_? He doesn’t even know I exist.”

“Well, then he is a fool,” says Aziraphale simply. “If he chooses to surround himself with sycophants and ignores true quality, then you are better off without him.”

“You’re correct, of course,” she says with a sigh. “But it is written, and so shall it will be.”

“Written where?”

Desdemona casts him a suspicious look, then turns her eyes back to the scenery. “Don’t mind me, I’m just talking rot. It’s all that blasted ratafia. The blame lies entirely at your feet.”

“You’re quite welcome,” says Aziraphale, with so much cheer that she has to turn in her seat to glare properly at him for his cheek.

* * *

The drive with Desdemona, Aziraphale thinks, is a still success, if a moderate one. At the end of the drive, she invited him to a small rout-party her family is hosting, which means Aziraphale will be in the same house as The Book. His hands tremble at the thought. It would be nothing at all for him to sneak away for a few minutes, find the book, be off again.

However, as soon as he steps into his house, a memo manifests on his card table. Aziraphale rolls his eyes Heavenward. Gabriel really can be quite clueless. It would be just as easy—and far safer—to send an attendant to deliver the letter, but no, he always needs to show off. Irritated, he picks up the letter, skimming it quickly. Then he lifts his hand to cover his frown.

He folds the memo, tucking it into one of his pockets, and then pivots on his heel and walks back out of the house.

* * *

Aziraphale strolls up a narrow flight of stairs, tucked away, unseen, in Covent Garden. At the top of the stairs, he pushes open an ornate door and steps into a brilliantly white office with an expansive open floor plan. Gabriel is waiting for him, flanked by Michael and Uriel. Behind them is a slowly spinning brilliant blue sphere. The Earth.

“Ah, Aziraphale,” says Gabriel in greeting.

“Gabriel,” says Aziraphale, much more modulated. Almost against his will, his shoulders tense, and he folds his arms behind his back.

“Well?” Gabriel asks, lifting his eyebrows, guiding.

“You were the one who summoned me, sir.”

“The Book, Aziraphale,” says Michael, who’s always been the straightforward one. “Have you got it?”

“Not quite yet,” says Aziraphale, resisting the urge to pace out his nervousness. “But I’ve made promising progress—”

“Aziraphale,” Uriel interrupts. “You must stop wasting time. We need that book as soon as possible.”

Aziraphale blinks, glancing between each archangel. “I don’t understand. Why the sudden rush? I’ve hardly been in London for more than a handful of weeks.”

Michael steps up to Gabriel’s side. Although Gabriel has always been the face of the archangels, Michael is their arms, working ceaselessly in the background. “We have reason to believe that an agent from Hell has been sniffing around lately.”

“Who?” says Aziraphale, surprised. He’s usually rather good at picking a demon out from the crowd—demons are not, after all, known for their tact. They wear frogs as hats, for the Lord’s sake.

“We don’t know who, although he doesn’t seem to know about Desdemona or The Book yet,” says Uriel. “But it’s only a matter of time. The importance of your mission has been escalated.”

“W-well, I’m working as quickly as I can. I’m not sure how much faster I can befriend her—”

“It’s time to step up your game,” says Gabriel, with that smarmy grin that Aziraphale quite dislikes. “As we mentioned before, you have been authorized to do everything in your power to get your hands on that book.”

That sounds—ominous. “I don’t know what you mean. I couldn’t possibly take it from her forcibly. Even if that weren’t terribly wrong, surely Agnes Nutter would warn her about an angel breaking into her home to steal The Book.”

“I mean _woo_ her,” says Gabriel, in that irritatingly patronizing way of his.

“_Excuse me_?” Aziraphale must not have heard right. Befriending someone under false pretenses is bad enough, but _wooing_ them? That’s—that’s _monstrous_. “I will do no such thing.”

Gabriel cleans out his ear with his pinky. “Sorry, did I hear you right? Did you just tell me no?”

Aziraphale flattens his lips into a disapproving line. He tries to find a sympathetic face in the other archangels, but he’s not really surprised when he finds none.

“I don’t think you comprehend the importance of this mission,” says Uriel, sternly. “If Hell gets their hands on The Book, then the Holy War will be lost.”

“Forgive me, but I don’t think you quite understand how prophecies work—”

“It’s a paradox,” Michael explains, smiling at him. It’s not a very kind smile. Actually, it’s not a very smiley smile. It’s the smile of someone who doesn’t quite know how to smile and has not quite perfected the art of pretending they can. It’s _creepy_. “As long as The Book remains closed to us, the Holy War is simultaneously lost _and_ won.”

“What on Earth does _that_ mean?” says Aziraphale, completely baffled. 

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel snaps. “No more questions. Seduce the woman. Get The Book. And do it _quickly_.”

* * *

Aziraphale closes the door behind him with a soft click, then stands with his hand on the doorknob, staring blindly at the floor. After his meeting with the archangels, he’d spent the rest of the afternoon mindlessly walking around London until he ended up, once again, in front of the empty shop.

_AZ FELL AND Co._

For a moment he’d been filled with such an impotent fury that he actually considered smiting the entire building, but it burned quickly out of him, leaving him feeling like an empty husk. It was around then that he’d decided to head back to the house to fill that emptiness with alcohol. Not the best coping method, but the only one he currently has.

It’s dark now, the hall lit only by a handful of flickering candles. Aziraphale drops his hand from the doorknob and makes his way to one of the sitting-rooms, as if in a dream. He lowers himself into a chair, then sinks his head into his hands.

“Mr Fell.”

Aziraphale lifts his head, hands still resting on his cheeks. Crowley is standing at the door. In his hands is a silver tray, with two crystal glasses filled with a clear liquid.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, softly.

At his acknowledgement, Crowley enters the room. The flickering orange candlelight casts his face in stark shadows, emphasizing the sculpted lines of his cheeks and his jaw. Even in this dim lighting, he still wears his darkened spectacles. His eyes must be very sensitive, indeed.

“What’s this?” Aziraphale asks, as Crowley sets the tray down on a small table, then hands Aziraphale one of the glasses.

“You seem like you need something stronger tonight,” says Crowley. “It is not quite as refined as Madeira—more of a soldier’s drink. I believe you will find it to your liking, sir.”

Aziraphale takes an experimental sip. It’s sweet, a bit woodsy, like pine, with a hint of citrus. “It’s good,” says Aziraphale.

“It’s called a Gin Sling,” Crowley tells him, picking up his own glass. He takes his usual seat across from Aziraphale without waiting for an invitation, and Aziraphale is almost pathetically grateful. “Forgive me for asking, sir, but are you well? You seem out of sorts.”

Aziraphale swirls his drink in his glass, watching the candlelight ripple across the surface. He rests the glass against his knee. “Crowley, have you ever—have you ever been forced to do something you didn’t want to do?”

“Yes, sir,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale’s head snaps up. Crowley’s lips part slightly, then he shakes his head.

“Not like that, sir,” he assures Aziraphale, quickly. “But there have been times that my—employers—have required that I carry out deeds that I would have—strongly preferred not to do.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, eyes softening. “Please know that I would never ask you to do anything against your will.” He smiles, self-deprecating. “You don’t even need to have breakfast with me, if you don’t want.”

The candlelight flickers mesmerizingly in the dark depths of Crowley’s spectacles. They fix on Aziraphale for a long moment, before he tips them away, towards his drink. “It never once crossed my mind that you would ask me to do something unpleasant,” he says, and Aziraphale notes that he doesn’t tack on the ‘sir.’ He wonders if that was intentional.

Crowley gets to his feet and sets his empty glass on the tray. “Will you be going to bed soon?”

“I think I’ll stay up for a bit longer.” Aziraphale smiles up at him, suddenly grateful that, out of all the valets he could have possibly got, he was lucky enough to have got Crowley. “Please don’t wait up for me.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Positive.” Aziraphale sighs quietly. “I’m just going to have a think for a bit. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” 

For a moment Aziraphale thinks Crowley going to clap a companionable hand on his shoulder. Oh, how he wishes he would. But instead he tips his head politely, and disappears from the room.

The problem is, at his core, Aziraphale is a very, very good natured being. To him sulking is tedious, and he grows rather frustrated with it after approximately a quarter of an hour. With thoughts in his head about opening a new bottle of Madeira to share with Crowley, he gets to his feet and makes his way to the servant’s quarters. 

The door to Crowley’s room is slightly ajar. Aziraphale can see candlelight flickering through the crack. And, really, Aziraphale _really_ should have knocked, but in retrospect, it’s a good thing he didn’t. He pushes the door open and says, “Crowley, would you like—” before the words burn to ashes on his tongue.

The eyes that stare back at him are huge and yellow, with black slits for pupils that are rapidly dilating in fear. Not human eyes. More importantly, not _angel_ eyes.

“_Demon!_” Aziraphale roars, and smites him.

The demon twists out of the way, somehow managing to dodge the smite. He’s much faster than Aziraphale had anticipated, and Aziraphale is, admittedly, a bit out of practice. “Whoa! Now, hold on there, angel,” he says quickly, holding up both his hands in supplication. Then he shoves past Aziraphale and sprints out of the room.

“Get back here!” Aziraphale bellows, rushing after him. Unfortunately, he’s not quite as long-limbed, nor as graceful as the demon, and he stumbles heavily into the door that separates the staff quarters from the main house. He catches up with the demon just as he’s reaching for the front door and flings his hand up, slamming it shut.

“N-now, angel, are you sure you want to do this here? You’ll wake up the staff,” the demon says, and then makes a dash for it, straight into the drawing-room. Aziraphale stalks in after him, the doors slamming shut behind him, untouched, and his great white wings unfurl from his back. The candles flare to life around them, so bright that it’s almost like daytime.

“Okay, so that’s a big fat yes. Look, I know this looks bad,” the demon says, large eyes darting between Aziraphale and his wings. His auburn hair is a mess, sticking up in wild tufts. Somehow—though it’s an entirely inappropriate time to notice—he looks more _real_ now. “I mean, it _is_ bad. I actually don’t have any good excuse,” he admits. “But you gotta understand, I was just doing my job.”

“By—what? Were you _spying_ on me?”

The demon’s lip curls in a grimace and he shrugs.

Aziraphale tries to smite him again.

Clearly expecting this, the demon dives out of the way, grabbing Aziraphale’s precious bookshelf and yanking it in front of him. Several priceless first edition books topple out—yet _another_ transgression. “How _dare_ you!” Aziraphale shouts.

“It’s not personal!” the demon shouts back, peeking around the edge of the bookshelf. Aziraphale flings a blessing at him, but he jerks back before it can land. “I was _assigned_ to you.”

“I’ll smite you back to Hell, you—you—_snake_!”

“Funny you should say that,” the demon mutters, before lifting his voice again. “Or how about we carry on what we’re doing and _not_ attract the attention from Downstairs, yeah? Or Upstairs, for that matter.”

“I—I—” Aziraphale splutters, a horrible thought just occurring to him. “Was that why I—were you _Tempting_ me?”

“_No!_” the demon thunders, so loud that the windows behind him actually rattle. He thrusts his head out from behind the bookshelf again so that he can glare furiously at Aziraphale. For a split second, Aziraphale’s heart stops—why is he so _relieved_, damn his stupid, traitorous heart—before it resumes its wild beat. “No. I never Tempted you. Not once.”

An uneasy silence blankets the room. The demon is still tucked behind the bookshelf, watching Aziraphale with terrified, but still deeply offended, _demonic_ eyes, waiting for his next move. Aziraphale pauses, although he keeps one hand pointed at the bookshelf. It is a terrible, terrible idea to let the demon keep talking, but—but—this is, or rather this _was_—Crowley, the closest thing he could call a friend in this century. Something hot and painful twists in his chest at the realization. Betrayed. He feels betrayed.

_Isn’t that how Desdemona would feel, if she found out the truth?_ a sinuous voice asks in the back of his mind.

“You have two minutes,” says Aziraphale. “Start with: what is your _real_ name?”

Satisfied that he’s not going to be immediately smote, the demon edges out from behind the bookshelf, then leans his shoulder against the side, shoving his hands into his pockets. He has all the appearance of a man trying to appear casual but is coming off as really rather uncomfortable. “My name actually is Crowley, although it was originally Crawly. Back in Eden.”

“You were at Eden? I don’t remember any demon at Ede—wait.” Aziraphale’s eyes narrow. “Never tell me _you’re_ the Original Tempter.”

“The one and only,” says Crowley smugly, although he’s watching Aziraphale keenly. “I don’t remember seeing you there, though. I’d definitely remember you if I had.”

Aziraphale folds his arms over his chest. He thinks he knows how he’s supposed to take that. “I was assigned to the Eastern Gate.”

“That explains it.” Crowley nods in understanding. “I was at the Western Gate. The angel there was—” He cuts himself off, apparently remembering just who he was talking to. “Uh. Something.”

“Nanael,” says Aziraphale. Crowley didn’t need to say anything more. Aziraphale hadn’t seen Nanael since Eden, but he could go another six thousand years easily without seeing the other angel, and it would be too soon.

“That’s it,” Crowley says, clapping his hands together.

“Get back to the topic at hand, demon. You have under a minute to explain yourself.”

“You’re counting?” Crowley shakes his head. “No, what am I sssaying. Of course you’re counting. Alright! Alright. Hear me out—if you smite me, do you really that’s the last you’ll hear from Hell? Because I guarantee they’ll send someone much worse than me to take my place. Trust me, you do _not_ want Hastur hanging around here like a bad smell. And he _will_ stink up the place—fellow doesn’t believe in bathing. All I’m suggesting is—let’s just continue as is, yeah? You do your thing, I’ll do mine, and we’ll try to stay out of each other’s way as much as possible. How does that sound?”

Aziraphale blinks at the storm of words. It’s as if Crowley’s been bottling everything up since he moved into Aziraphale’s house and it’s all come spilling out of him in a frantic rush. He takes a moment to digest the speech, then folds his arms over his chest. “It sounds to me like you take me for a fool.”

“No, no!”

“You must do if you think I’ll just let you—let you stay here, _dressing_ me—”

A faint blush blooms high across Crowley’s cheeks. “I’ll, uh. I’ll stop that. No need to keep dressing and undre—uh, no need to _help_ now that the whole angel and demon thing is out in the open, right? Right.”

“Why can’t I smell you?” Aziraphale asks.

“I bathe,” says Crowley, offended.

Aziraphale waves an irritable hand. “_Please_ do not prevaricate. I assure you that I am not in the mood.”

“Right right right,” Crowley fumbles with his collar, popping open the top button, and Aziraphale thinks, wildly, _Surely he’s not planning to _seduce_ me_—but then he pulls out a small, well-worn leather pouch attached to a string around his neck. 

“A hex bag,” says Aziraphale, slightly impressed. It had to be a very powerful hex bag for him to not sense Crowley’s demonic powers.

“I can take it off—” Crowley offers, tucking his fingers under the string.

“Leave it on,” Aziraphale orders. Crowley’s fingers freeze, then his hands drop to his sides. “Gabriel drops in on me once in awhile. If he senses you’re here—”

“Right,” says Crowley, and his expression softens, just a little.

Aziraphale shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. This suddenly quite expressive version of Crowley is throwing him for a lurch. He needs to—something. He needs to think things over without Crowley staring at him with every emotion he’s clearly been forcibly suppressing these past weeks writ large all over his animated face. He drops his hand again and glares at the demon, who skitters back a couple of steps.

“This is a _very_ delicate operation—” says Aziraphale.

“Which is why it’s better to stick with the devil you know”—Crowley points to himself—“versus the devil you don’t”—he points down.

Loathe as he is to admit it, the demon has a point. As an agent on Earth since the veritable Beginning, Aziraphale has run into his share of the agents of Hell. And Crowley has been—well, he’s _different_. Aziraphale has had his naked back turned to him on more than one occasion, and the demon hadn’t once tried anything untoward.

“You are a liar and a demon,” Aziraphale says. “I don’t trust you.”

Crowley blinks. Then he looks down and shrugs jerkily. “Why would you?” he says cheerfully, but the lines of his shoulders are tense.

“If we do this—”

Crowley’s head jerks up, eyes widening in shock.

“_If_ we do this, then you have to let me read every memo before you send it to Hell.”

Crowley’s mouth works silently for a moment. “Y-Yes,” he stutters. “Yeah, of course. You can absolutely do that.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders slump. He’s a fool to let himself be talked into this, but somehow he already knows he’s going to give in, even as he says, “I must think it over.”

“Of course,” says Crowley, nodding jerkily.

Aziraphale glares at him. “Don’t you dare think about trying to escape. I’ll know.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” says Crowley, shaking his head jerkily. Then he has the audacity to grin cheekily at Aziraphale, his snake eyes crinkling at the corners. “Need help with your coat?” 

Aziraphale turns a disbelieving glare to him. 

“Right, right—that was a _joke_, please do not smite me.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Aziraphale makes himself absent from his room, not wanting to face Crowley just yet. He spends most of the morning brooding in his study, but by lunch he’s grown tired of being moody. He’s always had a happy disposition (Gabriel had once described him as “irritatingly sunny”), and falling into a funk goes against the grain in him. But he is still quite furious with Crowley, so he sneaks out before the demon can try to bribe him with lunch and goes to dine at White’s.

He spends most of the day indulging in port and arguing with himself. Had he made the right call to not tell Heaven about Crowley? This decision could potentially jeopardize his entire mission. On the other hand, Crowley also had a point. If he alerted Heaven about Crowley, or if he’d followed through with his threats and smote him back to Hell, he would risk a potentially worse demon taking Crowley’s place. On the third, secret hand, the reason why he didn’t alert Heaven or try harder to smite Crowley was because he _liked_ the demon.

Back at home, slightly drunk and with no new solutions to his problems, Aziraphale enters his room and slowly shuts the door behind him. He walks over to his bed, hands lifting to his cravat, then hovering over the knot. Right. There’s no need to undress in the human fashion anymore. He can just snap his fingers. He stands there for a moment, feeling hopelessly lost. 

And then his door swings open and Crowley saunters in, holding a tray with a bottle of wine and two empty glasses. Aziraphale stares at him, a little stunned. Sure, he’d been struck forcibly by the demon’s personality during their fight, but this Crowley. _This_ is the real Crowley, not frightened, or pretending, or talking his way out of getting smote.

“He-llo, angel,” Crowley singsongs, setting the tray on his table. He grins broadly at Aziraphale, sharp, wicked, a little snake-like, and all Crowley. Aziraphale is momentarily dumbstruck. 

“W-what,” he stutters, then firms his jaw and folds his arms over his chest. “I have no desire for your company tonight, demon.”

“Yes, yes,” says Crowley. “But unfortunately, we have a bit of a routine, yeah? I come to your rooms, undress—ah, help you get ready for bed, and then leave. It’s a whole”—he waves a hand—“thing.”

“I don’t need your help anymore,” flashes Aziraphale, then pointedly snaps his fingers. His clothing is instantly replaced with his nightshirt and dressing gown.

“Ah, yes,” says Crowley, sarcastically. “That takes care of five seconds of our usual”—he pulls out his watch, pretending to check—“half hour evening ritual.”

Aziraphale gives him a look cool enough to freeze whisky, then flops onto his bed. “I suppose you’ll just have to find a way to entertain yourself then,” he says and scowls at the ceiling, determined not to talk to him.

From the table, there’s a gurgle if liquid being poured into a glass. Aziraphale can hear Crowley hesitate for a second before he pours a second glass. Aziraphale’s eyebrows lower. He will _not_ be tempted by wine, no matter how much he dearly wants to be.

He can hear Crowley drink, then smack his lips in satisfaction: an obvious provocation. But then Crowley says, “So, about Shakespeare.” And then—and then it’s as if he’s replaying the very conversation from their first breakfast together, where Aziraphale had prattled on about Shakespeare in order to fill the silence. Crowley tells him about how he’d once watched Hamlet in the Globe Theatre one evening, and how it had a paltry turn out—because it was one of his gloomy ones, and nobody actually _likes_ his gloomy ones—but then how that very next day it had been swarming with eager theatre goers.

“I couldn’t figure it out,” says Crowley, thoughtfully. “Still don’t know why it was an overnight sensation. I mean, _Hamlet_.”

“That was one of mine,” admits Aziraphale, then pinches his lips shut, irritated that he let himself be dragged into conversation.

“Really?” says Crowley. From the corner of his eye, Aziraphale can see him perk up. “So you were there at the same time as me?”

Aziraphale scowls at the ceiling.

“Huh. I wonder why we never ran into each other.”

“I believe,” says Aziraphale, slowly, “you were designed specifically to punish me.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. Have a glass of Madeira. It’ll make you feel better.”

“No.”

“It’s quite good.”

Aziraphale ignores him.

“Suit yourself.” Aziraphale hears him pour another glass, and then take a long, leisurely drink.

That’s the point when Aziraphale decides to go to sleep, mostly out of self-preservation.

* * *

When Aziraphale wakes up, he half-expects to find Crowley still in his room, denigrating King Lear. But his room is empty, and the bottle of wine and two glasses are gone. He pushes himself into a sitting position, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He’s just swung his legs over the side of his bed when there’s a timid knock at his door.

“Enter,” he says, frowning a little. Crowley never knocked on the door, even when he was pretending to be the perfect valet. He’s pretty sure Crowley has never knocked on a door in his life.

There’s a brief scuffle on the other side of the door and Aziraphale starts towards it, but it creaks open before he can grab the doorknob. Mr Hornby, a thin young servant with soulful brown eyes and chestnut brown curls, shuffles into his room, struggling under the weight of a food-laden tray. 

“Good morning, Mr Fell,” he says, a little breathless.

“Oh good Lord,” says Aziraphale, striding up to him and taking the tray. “Where’s Crowley?”

Mr Hornby gratefully drops his arms to his sides, shaking his hands a bit. “Crowley, sir?”

Aziraphale frowns down at him. His expression is a little—fuzzy. “My valet?”

“Oh. Right.” His expression clears. “Mr Crowley was busy this morning, sir. He asked if one of us could bring you breakfast for him.”

Aziraphale frowns thunderously, setting the tray down on the table with a smack. In the doorway, Mr Hornby jumps like a frightened mouse. “Oh dear, I’m quite sorry,” says Aziraphale, forcing himself to calm down. “Ignore me, I had quite the night, but I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“N-no, sir,” stammers Mr Hornby, bowing. “You did nothing wrong, sir. There’s no need to apologize.”

“Nevertheless,” says Aziraphale, plastering on his kind smile. “Thank you for bringing my breakfast.”

Mr Hornby bows again, then rushes out of the room, all in aflutter. Aziraphale heaves a sigh, then sits in his usual chair. His eyes are drawn to the empty chair across from him. Oddly enough, he has no appetite.

By the time Crowley comes to his rooms, twenty minutes later, Aziraphale has worked himself up into a thunderous temper. Crowley either doesn’t notice, or chooses to ignore it. “Good morning, angel,” he says cheerfully.

Aziraphale stops his irritable pacing and scowls at him, arms akimbo. “Where in the hell have you been?”

Crowley freezes, then turns back to him, planting his own hands on his hips in obvious mockery. He has on those _damned_ spectacles again. “I was doing you a favor,” he says, lip curling up in a sneer. “I figured you’d want to see as little of me as possible.”

Aziraphale clearly has no idea what the hell he wants. “Don’t add more work to Mr Hornby’s load,” he snaps.

Somehow, even with those hateful spectacles, Aziraphale just knows Crowley has rolled his eyes at him. “I didn’t specifically ask him. I just said, _look, mates, I’ve got an appointment this morning for Mr Fell. If someone could bring him his breakfast—there’s a chap_. It’s not my fault if he has more work than he can handle.”

Aziraphale blinks a little. It’s still a surprise when Crowley opens his mouth and a torrent of words come rushing out.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale. “I’m telling you to continue bringing me my breakfast.” He pauses, because that sounds like an order. “If you please. And—and you don’t have to wear those spectacles when you’re in here. If you don’t want to, that is.” 

In the name of the—What was he getting so flustered about? Irritated with both Crowley and himself, he turns to his closet.

“Oh,” says Crowley, faintly. “Yeah. Okay. I can do that.”

Aziraphale pretends to ignore him, sorting through his clothing as if he can’t just snap his outfit for the day into existence. He can hear Crowley cross that room in that swaggering gait of his—that’s another difference Aziraphale is having trouble adjusting to. Crowley the Perfect Valet had been all tightly controlled movements and perfect posture. Crowley the Demon is swaying hips and swinging arms. Crowley the Perfect Valet maintained a respectful silence. Crowley the Demon speaks not just with his hands, but with his entire body, leaning forward when he’s interested in something, or sweeping out his hands to emphasize a point.

Somehow, Aziraphale has a feeling that this unleashed Crowley the Demon is far, far more dangerous than Crowley the Perfect Valet, even without all the touching.

“Did you not eat anything?” says Crowley, a disapproving note in his voice.

“Angels don’t need to eat.”

“Yes, but you _love_ eating.”

“Well, maybe I wasn’t hungry,” says Aziraphale bitterly. And maybe a little petulantly. 

When Crowley doesn’t immediately respond, Aziraphale turns to him. He’d removed his spectacles per Aziraphale’s request and is now frowning down at the food like it’s personally betrayed him. He actually has the audacity to look a little upset.

“Oh, very well!” Aziraphale huffs, stalking up to the table. He falls back into his seat and moodily grabs a slice of toast.

Crowley grins, dropping into the chair across from him and picking up the pot of tea. It’s cooled significantly since Mr Hornby had brought it, but when Crowley pours it, it steams. Crowley picks up one of the mugs and offers it to Aziraphale, who hesitates for a moment, then sighs and takes it.

“Thank you,” he says glumly.

Crowley pours himself a cup. He wraps both his hands around it, but doesn’t drink. “Listen, Aziraphale—”

Aziraphale’s head jerks up.

Crowley blinks. “What? What did I say?”

“You—you know my real name.”

“Oh,” Crowley exhales. He runs his fingers through his hair, dislodging the neatly combed locks until they’re in disarray. “Uh. Yeah.”

The silence goes a little funny. Aziraphale figures that Crowley knows his name because, well, because he was assigned to spy on him, which is a Bad Thing, but his stomach also fluttered when Crowley said his name. Which, come to think of it, is also a Bad Thing.

“You don’t want me to call you Mr Fell, do you?” says Crowley, a little uncertain. 

“No. At least, not here. Or—or when it’s just the two of us, rather. Aziraphale is good—is _fine_,” he hastily amends.

“Good and fine,” Crowley teases. Aziraphale looks back at his toast. “Right. Listen, I—I just wanted to, you know.”

“I know what?”

“You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale cocks a glance back up at him, a puzzled frown etched on his brow. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Crowley sighs with his whole body. “I’m _sorry_, alright? I’m sorry for—for everything, really. I didn’t want to—I didn’t actually enjoy lying to you. But I had my orders.”

Of everything Aziraphale could have possibly expected Crowley to say, the last thing he expected was an apology. “You are.”

“Of course I am!” Crowley snaps. “I’m a demon, not an asshole.”

Aziraphale sets his teacup down and sinks into his chair, staring at the floor. How can he be self-righteous when he’s doing the same damned thing to Desdemona for the same damned reasons? “I believe you.”

“You—You do?” says Crowley, surprised.

“Yes.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, softly. “Should I—thank you?”

Aziraphale closes his eyes. “Best not.”

“Do you, uh,” says Crowley, clearly casting his mind for anything he can help Aziraphale with. “Do you want me to—to help you pick out an outfit for today?”

Aziraphale gets to his feet. Why is it that every interaction he has with Crowley feels like it’s going to overwhelm him? “No thank you. I’ll just—I need to get ready,” he says, and then escapes into a small, attached room. After several long seconds, he realizes he’s in a dressing room.

“Oh, _really_,” he mutters to himself, wondering if this is Her idea of a joke, and then hides in the dressing room until he’s certain Crowley has left.

* * *

The next time Aziraphale sees Desdemona, it’s at Almack’s. He finds her sitting by herself opposite of the orchestra’s balcony, her deep purple overdress clashing unfortunately with the mustard-yellow sofa. She looks desperately bored, chin resting in her hands. There’s a small crowd behind the sofa, clearly wanting to sit, but unwilling to ask her to move.

Aziraphale frowns at the sudden feeling of menace behind him. He glances over his shoulder, scanning the crowd of dancers and past the couple dancing nearby—an older lady dancing with a man with straw-like hair—to, ah, yes. Lord Charles Stauton is glaring at him over his partner’s shoulder. Aziraphale smiles and waves his fingers at him, then turns back to Desdemona.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, resting a hand on the sofa’s armrest.

Desdemona looks up at him, then lifts her head from her hands and smiles with genuine happiness. “Mr Fell! It’s free for you and no one else.”

“Much obliged,” says Aziraphale, bowing graciously and taking the seat next to her.

“I have no idea why I attend these things,” sighs Desdemona. “I never dance, and I always end the evening feeling worse about myself.”

Aziraphale turns his eyes to the dancing couples. It certainly looks as if everyone is enjoying themselves immensely. “Shall we attempt to waltz?” he asks, holding a hand out to her.

She looks at his hand, then at his face. “Do you believe it wise?” she asks, setting her hand in his.

“Not in the slightest, but it could be fun,” he says, and leads her to the dance floor. 

Five minutes later, they return to the miraculously empty sofa, Desdemona doubled over with laughter, Aziraphale blushing furiously. Desdemona is a considerably better dancer than she makes herself out to be, but Aziraphale is much more wretched than he thought he _could_ be.

“Oh my goodness gracious. I cannot comprehend how you all make it look so easy,” he says, flustered.

“Mr Fell, you are a wonderful man, but I don’t believe I’ve seen anyone dance so preposterously in my life,” says Desdemona.

“Thank you.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” says Desdemona, wiping under her eye with her handkerchief.

Aziraphale, conscious of his responsibility, takes one of her hands.

“Mr Fell,” says Desdemona, after a long moment. “What are you doing?”

“I have no idea,” sighs Aziraphale.

Desdemona rolls her lips together, eyes still sparkling with mirth. “It seems to me that you’re attempting to flirt with me.”

“Rather terribly, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, but why?” asks Desdemona, then slants him a thoughtful look that slides into comprehension. “Is it because you’re—oh.”

“Because…?”

“Nothing, never mind,” says Desdemona quickly, a blush high on her cheeks. She purses her lips together, then reaches out and places her small hand on top of his.

Aziraphale gapes at her. He really did not think it would be this easy. Horror floods his chest, making him feel a little sick. Could it be—has she developed feelings for him? Oh, _damn_. Before he can do—well, he has no idea what to do, they are approached by a lanky figure dressed sharply in a black coat with long tails, a white overcoat, and an expertly done cravat to rival Aziraphale’s angelically tied neck-cloth. The man holds down a hand.

“May I have this dance?”

Desdemona glances at Aziraphale, astonished.

“Well, he’s certainly not asking me to dance,” says Aziraphale, smiling encouragingly at her. 

That earns him a baffled smile in response. She releases his hand, looks frowningly up at Lord Stauton for a moment, then seems to think _to hell with it_, and takes his hand.

Somehow, Aziraphale can’t be that disappointed that he’s been so thoroughly cut out, despite it interfering with his mission, not when Desdemona’s cheeks flood with a pleased blush as Lord Stauton leads her to the dance floor. Besides, he can’t help but to feel a resounding pang of relief at the sight of Lord Stauton drawing her into his arms. At least her affection for Aziraphale isn’t deep enough that she would refuse to dance with another man.

Although, really, she could do _so_ much better.

* * *

Now that Desdemona’s attention has been so thoroughly captured by Lord Stauton, Aziraphale decides to call it an early night, already feeling a little drained by his atypically forward advances. Desdemona’s apparent interest makes it all the more worse. It’s wrong. It’s _evil_. And yet, it’s what he’s been ordered to do.

Back at the house, Aziraphale wanders into his drawing-room, thinking he might spend the rest of the evening losing himself in his copy of _Pride and Prejudice_. He pauses at the door. Crowley is sitting in his favorite chair, one of Aziraphale’s black hessians perched on his knees, and a stool with a bowl perched atop it on his left. He’s not wearing his sunglasses, which seems unpardonably reckless.

“What are you—are you _polishing my boots_?” Aziraphale demands, baffled by the sight.

“Yep,” says Crowley.

“_Why?_” Aziraphale demands.

“Because they need to be polished.”

Aziraphale slides one hand down his face, sinking into the chair across from Crowley. “You must be joking. Crowley, you are a demon. Why don’t you just—?” He snaps his fingers in demonstration.

“It’s not the same,” says Crowley. His fingers look oddly long and graceful as he slides the rag over the top of the boot. “Besides, I just got Beau Brummell’s famous recipe. Wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Before Aziraphale can respond, the door swings open and one of the maids comes in. “Oh, Mr Fell! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you would be back so early, sir.”

Aziraphale smiles kindly at her, although he wonders what she must think about her associate lounging in Aziraphale’s favorite chair, polishing Aziraphale’s boots. “It’s no problem.”

“Would you like me to have Mr Crowley bring you a drink?” asks the maid.

Aziraphale says nothing. He slides a glance at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. Crowley has stopped polishing Aziraphale’s boot and is staring at the maid like a prey animal whose hiding place has just been exposed.

“No, I thank you,” says Aziraphale, still smiling. “I believe I will just read for a bit before turning in. Please feel free to take the rest of the night off.”

“Oh, thank you, sir! That’s very kind of you.” She curtsies deeply and smiles brightly at him, still completely oblivious to the demon sitting across from him.

“Have a good night,” says Aziraphale, then quickly scans through a list of names before selecting, “Ms Dalton.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

The click of the door shutting behind Ms Dalton is the only sound in the room for several seconds. Aziraphale considers the door thoughtfully, then turns back to Crowley.

“Crowley,” he says, slowly. “Have you been—have you been befuddling my staff?”

“Of course I’ve been befuddling your staff, if you want to call it that,” says Crowley, resuming his polishing more vigorously than Aziraphale’s hessian deserves.

“_Crowley_.”

“_Aziraphale_. Of _course_ I have been befuddling your staff. We have breakfast together every morning. The staff was already wondering about your—uh, _proclivities_.

Aziraphale hadn’t even considered that. He knows the type of figure he cuts, has heard more than one sly whisper about how he’s _not the marrying type_. Mostly, his peers don’t seem to care—or at least, are willing to ignore it—as he is both well-liked and has a considerable fortune, and, probably more importantly, has recently been seen often in Desdemona’s company.

But—it sounded almost as if— “Were you protecting me?”

“What—no! Of course not!” blusters Crowley. “Why would you even think that? If you got carted off to prison because you were too _indiscreet_, then that would mean I’d fail _my_ mission. Like I’d care what happened to you otherwise.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, startled, looking quickly down at his hands. Well, he supposes that answers all the questions hadn’t realized he’d had. How stupid he is to feel this hurt. Crowley is a _demon_. All those times his hands had tenderly brushed over Aziraphale’s back really _had_ been to just smooth out wrinkles. He, by his own admission, doesn’t care about Aziraphale, and never has, certainly not enough to protect him. Foolish, sensitive angel. 

“Fuck. God_dammit_!” Crowley curses violently enough that Aziraphale jumps in his chair. Crowley quickly gets to his feet, the boot falling to the floor with a quiet thump. He crouches in front of Aziraphale, grabbing one of his hands in both of his, his face pale. “I didn’t mean that. Stop _looking_ like that.”

Aziraphale gives him a shaky smile. “Crowley, it’s fine. I understand—”

“You _don’t_,” Crowley interrupts, wild. “I was lying! I befuddled them because—because I didn’t _want_ anyone to spread rumors about you. I didn’t want you to get in trouble, or—or get hurt! Of course I—!” He cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling a slow breath. When he opens his eyes again, he’s calmer. “I would care. If something happened to you.”

For several long seconds, the only thing Aziraphale can hear is his own thundering heart. “Oh,” he says again, faintly.

Crowley looks away, swallowing thickly. He lets go of Aziraphale’s hand and runs his hand through his hair, standing up. Crowley’s words hang heavily in the air between them. Neither of them seem to know what to say. 

“I’m glad,” says Aziraphale in a soft voice, which isn’t nearly enough, but also feels like far too much. 

In any event, it appears to be all Crowley can handle at the moment. He claps his hands together. “Well! Your boots look great, gotta hand it to that Brummell. I think I’ll turn in now. See ya in the ack emma, angel.” And before Aziraphale can point out that he’s only polished one of the boots, he’s got the door open, and then he’s gone.

* * *

Something changes after that. The air between them feels oddly fragile, like if one of them can manage to say the right words, it will shatter, leaving them—actually, Aziraphale has no idea where it will leave them. Crowley still comes to his room every night, going through their old conversations with the opinions he’d been suppressing while he was Aziraphale’s valet, but now Aziraphale sits across from him, _engaging_ with him, until the sun rises and they’ve worked through several bottles of wine between them.

It would be _exactly_ like having a friend, except there’s something more between them. Aziraphale doesn’t think it’s just him who notices it; sometimes, when Crowley thinks he’s not paying attention, he catches him staring with a certain something in those yellow eyes. It fills Aziraphale’s stomach with a whole whirlwind of butterflies.

_A demon,_ Aziraphale thinks, with resigned despair.

On Thursday, two days before Desdemona’s rout-party, Aziraphale is struck by a brilliant idea. Now that he’s entered into a flirtation with Desdemona, it wouldn’t at all be odd for him to go to her house for an afternoon visit. If he can find the book, then he can put an end to this farcical dalliance and complete his mission without continuing to toy with her emotions. So, grabbing his walking stick and donning his curly-brimmed beaver, Aziraphale makes his way to the Device house in Grosvenor Square.

When the Device’s butler opens the door to him, Aziraphale strolls past him into the large hall, says, “Terribly sorry about this,” and snaps his fingers. The butler freezes, his lined face going slack. If Aziraphale were a demon, he would have the ability to force truths from the blank-faced, statuesque figure, but he thankfully hasn’t fallen _that_ far. Yet. So he exerts his will, lifts up the frozen butler, and stores him in a linen closet.

“You will wake up in forty minutes,” Aziraphale tells him, and then shuts the door on his face.

He tries the library first, quickly scanning through the truly incredible number of books the Device family owns. There are several titles Aziraphale itches to get his hands on, but no _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_. Of course not. That would be far too easy.

The study serves up similar results, as does a sitting-room, two saloons, and one parlour. Aziraphale stands in the middle of a third saloon, one hand planted on his hip, frowning at the wall.

Unless Desdemona keeps it in her rooms or the servant quarters, The Book is nowhere in the house. Damn it all. Aziraphale makes his way back to the hall, fuming quietly to himself. He’s just set his hand on the doorknob when Desdemona strolls into the hall, dressed in a somber gray riding habit. 

“Oh,” she says, startled. “Mr Fell! I wasn’t expecting you here. Did Humphries let you in?” She looks around, confusion clouding her brow. “Where is the man?”

Just then, the butler—Humphries, Aziraphale supposes—staggers out of the linen closet, face a mask of stunned confusion.

“Humphries!” yelps Desdemona. “What on earth were you doing in the linen closet?”

“I-I’m not sure, ma’am,” says Humphries, so baffled that he’s close to tears. “I just woke up there. Perhaps—could someone have hit me over the head?”

“Have you been drinking, Humphries?” Desdemona demands, folding her arms over her chest and looking particularly formidable.

“Oh no, ma’am!” cries Humphries, horrified by the accusation.

Conscious-stricken, Aziraphale hurries to his unintended victim’s defense. “There’s a—I heard that there’s an illness going around that, uh, causes temporary confusion. Perhaps Humphries here has contracted it. It’s, ah, particularly contagious.”

“Oh dear,” says Desdemona, immediately softening. “Are you not feeling the thing, Humphries?”

“I am a bit dizzy,” says Humphries, rubbing his temple. 

“Then by all means take the rest of the day off,” says Desdemona decisively. “I’m sure Sebastian can cover for you while you recover. Would you like me to call Dr. Lukin for you?”

Humphries shakes his head. “No thank you, ma’am. I think I’ll just have a lie-down.”

He totters away, his retreating back followed by Desdemona’s concerned gaze and Aziraphale’s guilty one. “I do hope he’ll be okay,” she says.

“Not to worry. I hear that the affliction is, er, a mild one,” says Aziraphale, giving her a strained smile. Although he’s far from in the mood for it, duty compels him to add, “Are you heading out, or can I interest you in an afternoon stroll?”

“Actually,” says Desdemona, cheeks coloring slightly. “I’m going for a ride in the Park with—with Lord Stauton.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows wing up. “Oh, _are_ you?” he asks, teasingly.

Desdemona’s blush deepens, but she shoots her ready grin at him. “He invited me at Almack’s,” she admits. “I am sorry. Would you care to reschedule for tomorrow?”

“By all means,” says Aziraphale, sketching her a small bow. 

There’s a knock at the door. Desdemona frowns at it, like she’s wondering how she could possibly work such a contraption, and Aziraphale belatedly remembers that it’s custom for quality to have their butlers answer the door for them.

“Let me get that for you,” he says. It doesn’t occur to him that this might be considered as forward by society’s strict standards until he opens the door and encounters Lord Stauton, who first looks polite, then thunderous. At least this affords him a brief flash of amusement in his otherwise guilt-ridden, irascible mood.

“Mr Fell,” he says, with icy civility.

Aziraphale is tempted to laugh at him, but instead he sweeps a bow. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Desdemona lift one hand to her face in exasperation. “Lord Stauton,” he says politely. “I was just taking my leave. Ms Device, your servant.” Then, flashing a mischievous grin at Lord Stauton, tells Desdemona, “I look forward to our walk tomorrow.”

He brushes past Lord Stauton and hears, as the door closes, “That fellow—!”

The walk back to the house does little to settle Aziraphale’s temper. He had not found the book, which means that he must continue this ridiculous scheme Gabriel’s thought up. By the time he gets back to his house, he’s worked himself up into a towering rage that really isn’t befitting an angel.

He storms into his house, clenching and unclenching his fists. He turns an angry circle in the front hall, then stalks into the drawing-room to pace out his anger.

He _hates_ this. It is _wrong_—a trick Downstairs would resort to in order to get their way. He understands the importance of The Book, but to sink to this level—this isn’t Ineffable, it’s _mean_.

The door clicks open and Aziraphale whirls around to find—Crowley, of course. “What do you want?” he snaps, then immediately covers his face with one hand, the other coming up to rest on his hip. “That was quite rude of me. I do apologize.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Crowley shuts the door behind him, easing into the room. “Everything alright?”

“No, everything is most definitely not alright,” says Aziraphale, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. He always feels so tired when he does something Obviously Wrong.

“Hey.” 

Aziraphale lowers his hand to find Crowley directly in front of him, one hand lifted like he’s about to touch him, but he jerks it back when Aziraphale looks at him. 

“What say you and I pop out for an early dinner, huh?” says Crowley, with slightly strained cheer. “Let’s get out of here for a bit, huh?”

“Where—to White’s?” says Aziraphale dubiously. Befuddling his staff is one thing. But an entire club?

“No, no,” says Crowley, flipping his hand. “Maybe—France. How do you feel about crepes?”

Aziraphale’s lips part. It hadn’t even occurred to him—now that neither of them are hiding, they can do things like that _together_. They can pop in and out of London with a snap of their fingers. They can eat _crepes_ in _France_. Aziraphale can even claim that it’s for his mission, that Desdemona claimed a preference for—for brioche, or something.

“Well?” Crowley asks.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale. “Absolutely. I would like that very much.”

A small smile curls Crowley’s lips. “Great. Now, lose the ruffles, angels. No need to _invite_ trouble.”

* * *

Crowley takes him to a small town southeast of Marseille, to a restaurant tucked away from the main boulevards, with purple flowers climbing up one stone wall. They stand outside the restaurant, dressed in plain black jackets and simple trousers. It had rained recently, a brief summer shower, and the air smells of living things and salt from the bay. It reminds him of standing on the edge of Eden, in the first rain. God’s storm had been a manifestation of Her fury, a destructive, wild thing, but also of Her divinity. After the clouds had cleared, the world had come to life. It had been wonderful to behold. Aziraphale closes his eyes for a moment, letting a quiet peace wash over him.

There’s a touch at his elbow, the same spot where Crowley usually touches him when he wants him to lift his arm. Aziraphale blinks his eyes open in time to see Crowley quickly draw his hand back. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Shall we?”

They’re seated at a table overlooking the sparkling bay. Crowley orders for them in rapidfire French, too fast for Aziraphale to follow. He cradles his glass of wine, perfectly happy to hand over the reins for the time being.

They spend the first two hours enjoying the best crepes Aziraphale has ever tasted in his entire long life and drinking a bottle of wine that never empties. The next hour is spent watching the sun sink into the ocean, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and reds. It’s—well, it’s very romantic. It feels like this is what he should be doing with Desdemona, if he were seriously courting her. Of course, this puts all sorts of foolish notions into his head, which he rapidly banishes. Crowley isn’t _courting_ him. He couldn’t be.

Could he?

“Listen, angel,” says Crowley, once they’re both suitably tipsy. “I know you’re going through a lot right now, and—and I know we aren’t exactly on the same side—”

“We’re on opposite sides,” says Aziraphale, admiring the way the lingering rays of sunlight highlights Crowley’s strong jaw.

Crowley huffs a quiet laugh. “Right. All I’m saying is—if you need someone to talk to, I’m here. Anything you say right now won’t go any further than this table. I promise.”

Aziraphale shoots him a suspicious look.

“Look,” says Crowley, resting his forearms on the table. “This mission is obviously eating you up. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I understand best what you’re going through right now, and I’m here if you need someone to talk to. No judgement, no reports to Hell.” He holds out his hands. “Just someone who will listen.”

Crowley must think Aziraphale exceedingly foolish if he expects him to just—just open up about his top secret mission. 

“They want me to court Desdemona so that I can steal her book,” says Aziraphale, since he is, apparently, exceedingly foolish. And perhaps more drunk than he realized.

Crowley chokes on his wine. “_What?_”

Aziraphale sinks his head into his hands. “I can’t do it, Crowley.”

“I should bloody well think you couldn’t!” says Crowley, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “What the hell is Heaven thinking?”

“They heard about—well, they heard about you, actually,” says Aziraphale, frowning disapprovingly.

“Me! You’re telling me I’m to blame for—” he cuts himself off with a disbelieving laugh. “Oh that’s—that's just bloody _typical_.”

Aziraphale frowns at him, confused, but Crowley just waves an irritated hand. 

“So tell me, angel, how have you been courting her? Flowers? Poetry? Serenading her outside her bedroom window?”

“No,” Aziraphale huffs, glaring. “If you must know, I haven’t been doing that much at all, and what I have been doing I haven’t been doing _well_. But—I don’t know, it seems to be working, anyway.”

Crowley watches him through his spectacles, swirling his wine distractedly. “What’s so important about this book that Heaven’s willing to abandon all scruples?”

Aziraphale tops off his glass, then takes a long, considering sip. He sets the glass down on the table. “It’s a—” he hesitates. In a way, trusting Crowley would mean betraying Heaven. He’s barely known Crowley for a month—he shouldn’t even be considering it. 

Crowley watches him thoughtfully, then sets down his glass, tosses down far more coin than their meal was worth, and gets to his feet. “Come on. I feel like going for a walk.”

Pathetically grateful that Crowley has given him an out, Aziraphale downs the rest of his drink and follows him out of the restaurant.

* * *

They walk side by side on the beach, barefoot, the stars stretching out in a glittering blanket overhead and the waves dance over their feet. The air is cool, but Aziraphale only allows himself to feel it as a pleasant breeze. He’s always felt closer to Her in places like this, where the sky meets the sea and stretches out into eternity.

“I helped design that one,” says Crowley, pointing up.

Aziraphale stops and tips his head back, trying to identify the cluster Crowley’s pointing at. “Which?”

Crowley sways close to him, pointing at a bright star. “That one right there. Alpha Centauri. It’s a triple star system.”

Aziraphale follows his finger until he finds the star system Crowley is indicating. “_You_ designed that? Crowley, that’s amazing.”

“Well, I was just on the advisory board, to be honest,” says Crowley with a self-deprecating shrug, but there’s a hint of pride in the curl of his lips. “You should actually see the nebula I made. Now _that’s_ impressive. Can’t see it this far north, unfortunately.”

Aziraphale stares up at Alpha Centauri, filled with burning wonder. He can picture Crowley over a designing table, pencil tucked behind ear, eyes lit up with creative energy as he designs and builds out star systems and nebulae. “Really, my dear, you’re incredible. You’ll have to take me there one day.”

Crowley doesn’t respond. When Aziraphale tears his eyes away from Alpha Centauri, it’s to find Crowley staring at him, eyes full of stunned wonder. Aziraphale’s cheeks immediately heat up. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Crowley shakes his head with a strange little laugh, and then starts walking again. Aziraphale falls into step beside him, but his eyes keep finding Crowley’s stars.

“Aziraphale, listen,” says Crowley, after they walk for several minutes in companionable silence. “You know you’re not the bad guy here, right? Heaven is. You’re just following orders.”

“Well,” says Aziraphale, after beat of surprised silence. “Is that really the right thing to do, though? _You_ didn’t follow orders.”

Crowley snorts. “And look where that got me.”

Aziraphale stops walking, bare feet sinking into the wet sand, the cuffs of his trousers ruined by the lapping waves. Crowley keeps walking for a couple metres, before turning to face Aziraphale, eyebrows lifted. He’d taken off his spectacles for the walk and his eyes are glowing like yellow stars. 

“For the record,” Aziraphale says, “I’m glad that it got you here.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. 

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, softly.

“Yeah?” Crowley rasps.

“Thank you. Truly. From the bottom of my heart.”

* * *

The evening of Desdemona’s rout-party finds Aziraphale standing in front of his mirror, fussing with his cravat. The peace from their trip to France had lasted all of Friday; he was even able to walk with Desdemona in the Park, guilt free. It helped that she was just as distracted as he was, and every time she spoke, it was to complain about Lord Stauton in an entirely lover-like fashion.

The only hitch in their conversation was when Aziraphale, pushed to the point of bluntness, had asked, “Do you enjoy reading?”

“Indifferently. Although several of my friends can be considered blue-stockings, I confess I prefer romances,” she’d said, after a brief pause. Then she’d shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Why?”

“But what about non-fiction?” he’d pressed. “I mean, _very_ non-fiction.”

To his surprise, a forbidding look had darkened her features. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, firmly, releasing his arm and stepping away.

Dismayed, he’d rambled on about _Pride and Prejudice_, until she’d warmed to him again, and they spent the rest of their walk sighing over Mr Darcy. 

But by Saturday morning his mood has tumbled back into a blue funk.

Maybe while Desdemona and her parents were distracted by greeting guests, Aziraphale could sneak away, search their personal quarters, and find The Blasted Book. Then he could stop this—this _dalliance_ with Desdemona.

His hands still over his rumpled cravat. In his dressing mirror, his reflection shows the face of a man wondering just how far he’s sunk.

“Aziraphale, what the hell have you done to your cravat?”

Aziraphale watches in the mirror as Crowley enters the room, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel. He’s got a bottle of wine tucked under one arm and two wineglasses wedged between the fingers of his other hand. This casual display is emphasized by his attire; he’s foregone his spectacles and jacket, and his white shirtsleeves are rolled up to reveal the sinewy strength of his forearms. 

Aziraphale, distracted by the artistry of his wrists, further mangles his cravat. “I can’t get it right,” he mutters irritably. 

Crowley sets the bottle and glasses directly down on the floor, then crosses the room to hover uncertainly behind Aziraphale. “Do you, uh. Do you want me to give it a try?”

They stare at each other in the mirror. Crowley hasn’t helped Aziraphale dress since—since the morning after the ball, when he’d come into Aziraphale’s room to find him nude. The memory brings a blush to Aziraphale’s cheeks.

Crowley lifts his hands in surrender. “I don’t—”

“That would be very much appreciated,” says Aziraphale, turning to him.

Crowley’s eyes really are the window to his soul. While his expression is completely impassive, those yellow depths kindle as he steps closer to Aziraphale, bringing his hands up to the cravat. He works slowly, untying the rumpled cloth, his knuckles grazing under Aziraphale’s jaw.

They haven’t stood this close in over a week, and every pathetic nerve in Aziraphale’s body lights up at the proximity, _yearning_ for Crowley. It’s unseemly, this demanding desire, but how can he help it, when they’re standing so close that they’re breathing each other’s air? When that air between them is charged with sparkling electricity? Cravat untied, Crowley grips each end of the cloth, then lifts his eyes from Aziraphale’s neck to stare down into his face.

Aziraphale is, quite suddenly, convinced that Crowley is going to kiss him. His lips part. Crowley tracks the movement with burning eyes.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale pleads, needing something—needing _anything_ but this endless _waiting_—and then the cravat flutters to the floor as Crowley descends upon him, his lips as soft as they are demanding. Aziraphale gasps into the kiss, heart drumming in his ears, hands flying up to grip the back of Crowley’s head as he’s backed up against the dressing table. Aziraphale’s lips tingle at first contact, and these spread through his entire body until he trembles from head to toe. They’re both trembling: the arms that come up to bracket Aziraphale against the dressing table shiver against his sides. Aziraphale has never been kissed before, and even though he has no idea what he’s doing, his mouth instinctively opens to Crowley, meeting the brush of his tongue with his own tentative caress. Crowley groans suddenly, surging against him, one leg pressing between Aziraphale’s thighs, and—

They’re interrupted by a firm knock at the door.

Crowley jerks away, then strides across the room, back to Aziraphale. One hand comes up to rake through his hair. Aziraphale stares after him, breath coming out in shallow gasps.

“Mr Fell, sir? I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a guest waiting for you in your library.”

Aziraphale swallows thickly, watching the line of Crowley’s neck, the sweep of his shoulders, and wishing that he could see his face.

“Thank you,” he manages, and his voice only has a slight rasp.

He waits until the footsteps on the other side of the door fade away, and then says, quietly, “Crowley.”

“Don’t want to keep your guest waiting,” says Crowley, still not facing Aziraphale.

Aziraphale walks up to him, touching his arm, then circles around him until they’re facing each other. He now knows why Crowley didn’t want to look at him. Crowley looks broken open, his eyes wide and desperate and full of a nameless longing. Aziraphale reaches up with both his hands to cup his face, drawing him in for another kiss. When he pulls back again, Crowley stares at him, dazed.

“Come find me after my meeting,” Aziraphale says, with a quiet promise. 

Crowley’s entire body shivers, and he nods.

* * *

Aziraphale is so distracted that he goes to his study first on accident. When he finds no one there, he snorts to himself, and heads to the library. To Aziraphale’s consternation, he finds Gabriel waiting for him. Dread squeezes his chest like a vice. Did he somehow know? About Crowley? About _him_ and Crowley? The timing seems too precipitous to be a coincidence.

“G-Gabriel,” Aziraphale stammers. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I have some bad news,” says Gabriel. He’s dressed in a caped-greatcoat and a tall beaver-hat. Aziraphale has always prided himself in adapting to human clothing. Gabriel just looks like he’s going to a fancy dress party. “Our sources inform us that Hell has learned about Desdemona.”

Relief flashes through Aziraphale like a surge of lightning—_he didn’t know_—before horrified understanding crashes through him.

“W-what?” he croaks. “How?”

“We’re not sure. That agent of theirs probably informed on you. Maybe they saw you driving with her. Or wondered why you were paying so much attention to her. Whatever the reason, she’s on their radar now.” Gabriel rubs his lower lip thoughtfully. “I think it’s time for me to step in.”

“Hold on, please,” says Aziraphale, wringing his hands together, his mind spinning out of control. 

_Crowley informed on me—_

The thought threatens to break him. He roughly shoves it down and forces himself to focus on the matter at hand.

He knows exactly what Gabriel means when he says he’s going to _step in_. For all that he’s a being of love, Gabriel really doesn’t care for humans on an individual basis. He cares about the greater good. He would have no problems with sacrificing the one for the many. Desdemona would not survive Gabriel. “I just need a little more time.”

“You’ve had more than enough time—”

“One more day,” pleads Aziraphale. “Just give me one more day. Desdemona invited me to a rout-party. I’ll be heading to her house in less than an hour.”

Gabriel heaves a great sigh. “Fine. You have twenty-four hours.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Aziraphale has no idea how long he stands there after Gabriel leaves, staring after him unseeingly. Hell knew. But that meant Crowley had—that meant everything in France had been—the thought was too terrible to contemplate. It meant—it meant that Aziraphale had been a _fool_. 

He’s only broken from his stunned reverie when the door swings open Crowley strolls in.

“Was that Gabriel?” Crowley asks, sounding faintly amused. “That guy’s almost as bad as Beezlebub. Or maybe worse, actually. At least Beezlebub’s got a sense of humor.”

“Did he see you,” says Aziraphale. His voice comes out oddly flat.

“Nah, I kept out of sight.” Crowley smiles tentatively at him, like he—like he _cares_. Like he gives one _single_ damn about Aziraphale, and not like he—like he— “You alright, angel?”

Aziraphale flinches.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, concerned. “What happened?”

“I was a fool to trust you,” Aziraphale manages to croak out, throat tight with anger. “No wonder why you Fell. You have done nothing but lie to me since we first met.”

It’s Crowley’s turn to flinch, but then his back straightens and his lips flatten in a thin smile. It hardly looks amused. “I see you’ve got some interesting news from our archangel friend.”

“You _promised_ me!” says Aziraphale, his voice rising in a shout by the end. “You told me that everything I told you in France would stay between us, but you told them anyway!”

“And what if I did?” Crowley asks silkily, his yellow eyes glittering, a reminder of just what and who he is. He shrugs. “You said it yourself—you can’t trust me.”

But he had. He _had_ trusted Crowley. He thought he’d found a kindred spirit. They’d shared _crepes_. Crowley told him about Alpha Centauri and his nebula and—they’d—they’d—

Fool. He’s been such a fool.

“But I did! You were my _friend_! You were—” Aziraphale shouts, spreading his wings in righteous fury. Crowley seems to have been expecting this, because his own black wings stretch out in response. The shadows deepen behind him, a manifestation of his own anger, clashing against Aziraphale’s holy light. 

Aziraphale lunges at him, and Crowley meets him head on, grabbing his arms. They sway unsteadily, an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. 

“You betrayed me!” Aziraphale cries.

“What do you want from me? I’m a demon!” Crowley snarls, and then he sweeps Aziraphale’s legs out from under him in a _cheap_ move. Aziraphale lands on his back in an explosion of breath, his wings cushioning his fall. Before he can roll away, Crowley descends on him, straddling his hips, one strong hand grabbing both of Aziraphale’s wrists and slamming them over his head.

Crowley’s face is twisted in a mask of fury, lips drawn back and teeth bared, eyes wild and demonic—but then he blinks, his expression abruptly changing to one of shock.

“Are you making an _Effort_?” he demands.

Aziraphale wrenches his hands free and grabs Crowley’s arms, rolling them over so that he’s on top. Crowley stares up at him, stunned, and then Aziraphale bends down and crushes their mouths together, swallowing the shocked, desperate sound that escapes Crowley’s throat. Crowley arches up to meet him, submitting fully to the kiss.

This is wrong.

Aziraphale has never done anything like this before in his _life_.

He has to—he has to—The _Book_—

Crowley’s hands snake around Aziraphale’s waist and grab his ass, pulling him flush against him, their hard cocks rubbing together through their trousers. They both groan into the kiss. Crowley breaks away, panting raggedly against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“_Damn_ you,” he snarls, and then shoves one hand between them to frantically rip at the buttons of Aziraphale’s breeches.

Aziraphale grabs Crowley by his hair, wrenching his head back to scatter harsh kisses down his long neck. But when Crowley’s fingers finally—_finally_—wrap around his cock—wrap around _both_ their cocks, Aziraphale has to stop kissing him to bury his face in Crowley’s neck with a strangled gasp. Crowley’s cock is a velvet-smooth slide against his own, long and blood-hot, pulsing steadily against his.

He grabs the front of Crowley’s shirt and tears it open, needing _more_—more skin, more contact, more _Crowley_. A faint flush burns down Crowley’s neck and Aziraphale follows it with a series of bruising kisses, dragging his hands roughly down his chest. He stops over Crowley’s furiously beating heart, panting open-mouthed as Crowley cleverly twists his wrist. 

“_Angel_,” Crowley gasps, a benediction. 

Aziraphale reaches between them, fumbling his own hand around Crowley’s, sliding his thumb over the wet tip of Crowley’s dick and reveling in the astonished groan this elicits. He wants—he wants _everything_. He thrusts into their linked hands, Crowley’s wings crushed into the floor from their combined passion, his own wings straining around them. 

Crowley watches him with a fixed stare, eyes wide and stunned, until Aziraphale can’t take it anymore: he kisses Crowley again, desperate, and hungry, and demanding, and then Crowley’s entire body shudders. He gasps into the kiss, and then tears away with a choked off groan as he spills over Aziraphale’s hand and cock. This sudden slickness combined with feeling Crowley pulse against him, feeling the _pleasure_ of Crowley’s orgasm in his straining muscles and stuttering breaths, is enough to make Aziraphale tumble over the edge with him with a cry, stars bursting behind his tightly shut eyelids. The world and all his troubles are momentarily forgot in a crash of pleasure so overwhelming it almost feels like elation.

They lay together for several seconds, breathing hard. Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut in denial. He wants to stay here, in the sanctuary of his own wings, with Crowley still clutching his hips. He wants to beg Crowley to tell him it was all a mistake, that they can go back to how it was. He wants Crowley to whisk him off to France again, where they can find a bakery that makes the best brioche, and then go back to that restaurant for more crepes and wine, maybe go for another starlit walk.

He pulls away with a rustle of cloth and feathers as his clothing straightens itself and his wings disappear. Crowley’s hands tighten on his hips for a second, before they fall back to the floor. 

“Aziraphale, I…” says Crowley, trailing off.

Aziraphale makes the mistake of glancing at Crowley’s face, just for a second. Then he gets to his feet and slowly walks to the door, the image of Crowley’s shattered expression seared in his memory forever.

“Aziraphale—” Crowley pleads.

Aziraphale stops at the door, one hand on the handle, his back to Crowley. “I don’t want to see you again,” he says, and then slams the door shut behind him.

* * *

If Aziraphale had been in his right mind, he probably would have remembered that carriages are actually much faster than this body’s legs, but panic over Desdemona’s safety and his own lapse in sanity sends him running down the block, regretting all his decisions, including this particular pair of hessian boots. He makes it down one more block before he remembers that he’s an _angel_, and then flies the rest of the way there, manifesting at the end of the road. He strides towards the house, slightly breathless from his mad dash through the city.

He’s in such a hurry that he doesn’t even notice another figure on the street until Lord Charles Stauton falls into step beside him. “Fell! What on earth is the hurry?”

Oh good Lord. Aziraphale slows his frantic pace to match Lord Stauton’s casual stroll. His eyes rapidly search their surroundings, but he doesn’t see any demon, nor does he see—thank God, thank _God_—Crowley.

“Lord Stauton,” says Aziraphale, curtly. Damn. He had hardly expected anyone else to arrive early to the dinner. Curse his luck, and curse Crowley for distracting him, and curse _himself_ for being so damned weak.

“I have been meaning to speak with you. What are your intentions with Ms Device?”

_To save her life and steal her book._ “I see no reason to discuss my affairs with Ms Device with you,” says Aziraphale, quickening his pace. 

Lord Stauton grabs his arm. Aziraphale looks down at his hand, astonished. The _cheek_ of this human. 

“I do not believe for an instant that your suit is serious,” says Lord Stauton. “I don’t know what your game is, Fell, but I’ll not have you hurt Ms Device by your actions.”

Aziraphale frowns him down. “Before you lecture me about my _actions_, young man, perhaps you should consider how your own _inaction_ is causing far more harm than anything I could do would.” He shakes off Lord Stauton’s arm, bristling. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

A demon steps into the path, directly in front of Aziraphale.

To his credit, he isn’t immediately recognizable as a demon. His eyes are black, but not outwardly demonic and his suit is somewhat baggy, but he’s dressed appropriately for the era, and he doesn’t have any frogs or locusts crawling around his straw-like hair.

“Stop right there,” the demon snarls.

Aziraphale glances at the house, then back at the demon. He sidles a quick look at Lord Stauton, who looks puzzled and slightly irritated.

“Who the hell are you?” asks Aziraphale, quite rudely. Lord Stauton flashes him a shocked look, but he ignores him.

The demon cocks his head to the side. “I am Hastur, Duke of Hell.”

“You are no duke that I’m aware of,” says Lord Stauton, with the prim indignation of a clueless aristocrat.

“I’m glad you’re here, _Mr Fell_,” says Hastur, grinning snidely. “I wanted to thank you, personally, for leading me to Desdemona.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Pardon me, but did you say _leading_ you to her?”

“I did,” says Hastur, frowning at this unexpected response.

Aziraphale holds up a hand. “Do you mean you, personally, or Hell as a whole?”

“Mr Fell, damn you, what have you done?” shouts Lord Stauton, which has the unfortunate result of drawing Hastur’s attention to him. Irritated, Hastur waves a hand, and a bolt of lightning crashes down from the sky. 

Aziraphale plunges his shoulder into Lord Stauton’s side, knocking him out of the way. The lightning burns into his forearm—it burns, it _burns_—arcing up his arm and into his core. Aziraphale hisses in pain, tucking his arm against his chest and doubling over. This must be Hellfire. Aziraphale has never been struck by it before, but only Hellfire could cause an angel this kind of agony.

“Fell!” Lord Stauton shouts. He whips out a small pistol and points it at Hastur’s face, hands admiringly steady considering he’d nearly been fried by a bolt of Hellish lightning.

“No!” shouts Aziraphale, grabbing his hand and wrenching it down to his side. “Go to the house. Get Desdemona to safety. Hurry!”

Lord Stauton blinks at him in surprise, glancing down at their hands.

Aziraphale quirks a grin at him, then shoves his shoulder, putting a little holy emphasis into the move. “_Go!_”

“Ooh, do stay!” Hastur cackles, lifting his hands to send another bolt of lightning at Lord Stauton, but Aziraphale throws a powerful blessing at him. Since Hastur is a Duke of Hell, he manages to mostly shrug it off, but he’s distracted enough that Lord Stauton can sprint away.

“Angel,” snarls Hastur, stalking towards Aziraphale.

“One moment, if you please,” says Aziraphale, holding up his hand. Hastur pauses, surprised. “I just have one quick question. You mentioned something about me leading you to Desdemona. Is that how you found out about her?”

Hastur blinks. It looks deliberate. That makes sense; Crowley also doesn’t often blink. “I don’t know how else you want me to explain it. I followed you,” he says.

“No one told you about her?” Aziraphale presses. “Gave you a hint?”

Hastur stiffens, offended. “Are you implying that I can’t do my job? Of course no one _told_ me about her. I told you, I followed you!”

“And you’re not lying to me?”

“Why the hell would I lie?”

“Well, I don’t know. You’re a demon.”

“Just accept that you’re incompetent at your job, angel,” says Hastur, in a smarmy way that reminds Aziraphale of Gabriel.

A jubilant smile spreads across Aziraphale’s face. “Happily,” he says, and then flares out his wings, illuminating them with holy light for a little more show. It’s effective. Like a wolf lunging at a wounded elk, Hastur comes at him, calling down another lightning bolt. Aziraphale springs back, wings folding around him. He tries to smite Hastur, but Hastur twists away, laughing wildly. 

Aziraphale pivots on his heel and sprints into the street, faster than a human eye can follow. He glances over his shoulder. Hastur is charging after him, black eyes fixed on his wings like a bloodhound. When they make eye contact, Hastur heaves another lightning bolt at him. Aziraphale throws himself to the side, but the lightning arches down the back of his right wing, filling the air with the smell of burnt feathers and flesh. 

The sudden shock of pain is enough to make him shout out and skid hard into a passing hackney. Several voices shout from within as the coach rocks violently. Aziraphale shoves himself off the side just as another lightning bolt slams into it. Spooked, the four horses rear and whinny and the jarvey bellows in surprise, jerking back the reins, but he’s unable to stop the horses from bolting. Aziraphale uses the commotion to dive into a narrow alley between buildings. He looks around for an outlet, breathless and desperate, but there is none.

Hastur stalks into the narrow alley, spreading his own black wings. They’re a _mess_, nothing like Crowley’s sleek, beautiful wings. Most of the feathers from his right wing are missing, as if he’s mid-moult, and even more are bent or broken. Aziraphale’s own wings tremble, burning pain pulsing through the new wound. 

“You’re _mine_, angel,” Hastur says with triumphant glee.

_Now_. Aziraphale whips up Lord Stauton’s pistol and fires. The crack from the report is deafening in the narrow alley. His arm jerks back, the shot going wild, digging a groove into the wall to the left of Hastur, but it’s enough to make Hastur stumble back in surprise, not expecting an attack from this unexpected corner.

“What—!” he says, outraged. 

Aziraphale flings the pistol to the side, thrusts out both his hands, and smites Hastur back to Hell with everything he has in him.

Hastur screams in fury. “That’s not _fair_!” he bellows, as he burns away in holy white flames.

“Oh, bugger off,” says Aziraphale, slumping against the wall.

* * *

It takes several minutes before he has the energy to put away his wings, and then several more before he can drag himself to his feet. The block is chaos, policemen and pedestrians spilling out of carriages and buildings, shouting in confusion. Aziraphale has just enough power left to hide himself from their frantic eyes. Gripping his arm close to his side, he staggers into the street and makes the long journey back to his house, breathing deeply through his nose and focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. 

He staggers over to the back entrance, fuzzily thinking that it would be best for him to enter, unseen, through the servant’s quarters. It doesn’t even occur to him that, this late into the night, he’s more likely to be seen by a restless servant than anyone from society. 

Two metres from the entrance, he stops. Crowley looks up at him from where he’s sitting propped up against the door.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes.

The corner of Crowley’s mouth curls up into a sneer. “Out kinda late, aren’t you?” he says. “Were you with Desdemona all night? Did you ask her to marry you? Do you _love_ her?” 

“Good heavens, you’re drunk,” says Aziraphale.

Crowley slithers up the side of the wall, bracing himself against it with both his hands. His spectacles are slightly askew; Aziraphale can see the edge of one yellow eye. “Well? Should I be off-offering you my felic—fel—congrats?”

Aziraphale glances around uneasily, then catches Crowley’s wrist. “Let’s get inside.” The door swings open at a wave of his hand, and he drags a stumbling Crowley behind him.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, tugging at his sleeve until Aziraphale turns to him. “I know you said you don’t—that you don’t want to see me again, but I wanted to tell you—Aziraphale, I never told them. About Desdemona. I don’t know how they found out, but it wasn’t—it wasn’t me. I promised you. I know it’s just the word of a demon—what’s a p-promise from a demon—but I promised you.” He fumbles off his spectacles so that he can look earnestly into Aziraphale’s eyes. “It meant something, because it was a promise for _you_.”

It sounds a bit like Crowley’s trying to tell him something else. Aziraphale’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. “I know, my dear.” 

“You don’t understand—” Crowley says, grasping Aziraphale’s injured arm. Aziraphale gasps, doubling over from the pain. “Fuck! What the _fuck_, angel?” Crowley yelps, stumbling back. His spectacles drop from his slack hand as he stares at Aziraphale, eyes glowing like candles.

“You’re hurt,” he says blankly. And then his entire face transforms, morphing into a mask of demonic fury. “Who _dared_—”

“Right right, in you go,” says Aziraphale, quickly ushering him into Crowley’s room, door shutting firmly behind them.

“Are you—you’ve been _burned_! Is that—is that from _Hellfire_?”

“Oh, really,” Aziraphale sighs. “It’s just a flesh wound, my dear.”

It’s only a small lie. After all, it _is_ a flesh wound, but it’s definitely not _just_ a flesh wound.

“Let me see it,” Crowley demands, striding up to Aziraphale. His hands automatically go up to his chest, expertly undoing the top three buttons before he seems to realize what he’s doing. His fingers freeze, and he glances up into Aziraphale’s face.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale murmurs.

Crowley looks back down at his hands, then resumes unbuttoning his coat, slightly less steady. Aziraphale sucks in a quiet breath. Crowley has undressed him many times before, but it’s different this time. This time, Aziraphale _knows_ he’s being cared for. Crowley’s hands are gentle as they carefully peel away the coat, then his shirt. He hisses when the wound across Aziraphale’s arm is revealed. It’s violently red and scorched black around the edges, with several huge, angry blisters welled up in the center. Crowley hovers his hands uselessly over the injury, his face white, as if he’s the one who’s been hurt. 

“It looks worse than it is,” Aziraphale assures him, quietly. 

“Who,” Crowley growls.

“A demon,” says Aziraphale, deciding not to tell Crowley his name, in case he rushes off to Hell and does something inadvisable. While Aziraphale isn’t quite sure about Crowley’s rank, he doesn’t think he could get away with murdering a Duke of Hell just because he injured an angel.

“Aziraphale—” Crowley grits out, his strong jaw tight with fury. His large eyes look very demonic right now, the pupils dilating into fathomless voids that Aziraphale finds himself getting lost in. He blinks rapidly, suddenly feeling a little faint, his arm and wing throbbing incessantly, sickeningly.

“Would you mind terribly if I sat down?” says Aziraphale, quickly. 

“Yes—of course!” Crowley herds him over to his bed and guides him to sit, as if he’s some sort of invalid. Crowley looms over him uncertainly, then shakes his head. “I need to sober up for this,” he says, then grimaces when the alcohol leaves him.

If Aziraphale thought that Crowley’s frantic energy would fade after he sobered up, he was wrong. He immediately falls to his knees in front of Aziraphale, taking his hand in both of his and turning his arm with so much tenderness that a lump forms in Aziraphale’s throat. He really is the most foolish angel imaginable.

The uncontrollable, demonic fury that had threatened to take Crowley over has been tamped down with apparent effort, but there’s still a dark promise of future violence clouding his brow. “Dammit, angel,” he mutters, then snaps his fingers. A table covered in clean medical supplies appears at his side. He selects a clean cloth and sharp looking tool that puts Aziraphale in mind of a javelin. Aziraphale isn’t the squeamish type, but _really_. He turns his head.

It doesn’t occur to him, until Crowley has drawn his arm forward, that letting Crowley clean his wounds indicates a degree of instinctive trust he hadn’t even realized he had for the demon.

“The good news is that I can do this without worrying. Humans usually have to suffer with these nasty buggers until their burns heal. Perk of being occult is that we don’t need to worry about mortal complications, like infection,” says Crowley as he attends to one of the blisters. There’s a sharp sting of pain, then immediate relief. “There you go, darling,” murmurs Crowley, gently patting at the wound with the cool, damp cloth.

“I’m not occult. I’m ethereal,” says Aziraphale, instead of what he really wants to say: _did you just call me darling?_

Crowley flashes a look at him, then snorts and moves on to the next blister. “The bad news is, this is going to take some time to heal. I don’t fully know the effects of Hellfire on angels, but I bet you’re going to be knocked out for a bit.”

He sets the javelin to the side and picks up a small glass jar, unscrewing the lid and tossing it carelessly onto the table. The contents are glossy and thick; Crowley scoops up a glob with two fingers and gently smears it over Aziraphale’s wound.

“Do you have any other injuries?” asks Crowley, as he deftly dresses Aziraphale’s arm with clean white bandages.

“One more,” Aziraphale admits.

“Let’s see it,” says Crowley, tying off the bandage.

Aziraphale blinks around the room. It isn’t precisely the size of a closet, but it’ll definitely be a tight fit if he brings out his wings. “Ah, we’ll probably have to address it in my room.”

Crowley cocks his head, confused, and then there’s that flash of unbridled rage again. “I see,” he says, tightly, and then snaps his fingers. He and Aziraphale are abruptly in Aziraphale’s room, along with the table, which is now accompanied by a stool. Around them, the candles flare to life. Aziraphale climbs onto the stool and brings his out wings; they droop tiredly behind him. He grabs his right wing his good hand and draws it in front of him, frowning at the jagged scorch mark down the back.

Crowley hisses when he sees the state of his wing. He closes his eyes for a moment, then turns to the table where there’s now a bucket and a sponge waiting for him. Another stool appears next to Aziraphale. Crowley settles into it, taking Aziraphale’s wing and laying it over his lap.

“Does it hurt badly?” he asks, carefully working the sponge over his wing.

“I’m fine now,” murmurs Aziraphale, slumping over his knees and propping himself up on his good arm. He watches as Crowley finishes cleaning the wound and begins to carefully remove the damaged feathers. This hurts _far_ worse than the blisters on his arm, but Aziraphale handles it with the stiff upper lip of a true Englishman.

“Crowley,” he says.

Crowley hums in response, not taking his attention from Aziraphale’s wing.

“I owe you a sincere apology. Several, in fact. The other agent told me that he found Desdemona by following me to her.”

Crowley’s fingers pause briefly. “Nah, angel,” he says, resuming his work. “You’re fine.”

“I never should have brought up your Fall,” Aziraphale continues, determinedly. “That was unforgivably cruel of me. I know nothing about what happened, and even if I did, I never should have used it against you. For that I am truly sorry.”

Crowley lays his hands flat on Aziraphale’s wing for a moment, not looking at his face. Then he exhales a slow breath. “Clearly it’s forgivable, because I’ve already forgiven you, angel. Think nothing of it.”

“I also never should have said I don’t want to see you again. For that, I am also sorry. That was a lie even then. I always want to see you.”

Now Crowley is looking at him, slightly alarmed. “Seriously, angel, it’s _fine_—”

“I also must apologize for saying that I was a fool to trust you, and that you betrayed me—”

Crowley claps his hand over Aziraphale’s mouth. “Alright, alright!” he yelps, a hot blush high on his cheeks. “I get it. You’re full of Heavenly guilt and need to tell the whole world about it. But please, enough already. Besides, I’m not fully in the clear here either. I provoked you on purpose and I’m—you know. I'm sorry too.”

Crowley studies his face for several seconds, as if searching for any further apologies. Satisfied with whatever he finds there, he withdraws his hand.

“I’m not sorry for having sex with you,” says Aziraphale simply. 

The words land on Crowley like a physical blow. His mouth works silently for several seconds, then he curses under his breath and leans back on his stool, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Crowley?”

“Shut up. You’re injured and I’m trying very hard not to jump on you.”

“What about a kiss?”

Crowley winces.

Aziraphale grins, suddenly impish. “I also wouldn’t say no to a blow j—”

Crowley claps his hand over Aziraphale’s mouth again. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters.

Aziraphale shoots him a disapproving look for the blasphemy, but then Crowley drops his hand and kisses him.

He’d thought Crowley would descend on him with the same furious passion as their love making from before, but first Crowley takes the hand of Aziraphale’s injured arm and brings it to his lips, lightly kissing his knuckles. Aziraphale’s eyes drift shut as Crowley then leans up to press their lips together in a kiss so gentle that it cracks Aziraphale’s heart open. He parts his lips to exhale a shuddering breath, and Crowley takes this as an invitation to deepen the kiss, still with that catastrophic tenderness.

Aziraphale lifts a shaky hand to cup the side of Crowley’s face, but then Crowley draws back slowly, blinking his eyes slowly back open.

“Your injuries,” Crowley murmurs.

“It’s fine.”

“I don’t want to—I _won’t_ hurt you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Aziraphale caresses Crowley’s lower lip with his thumb, quirking a smile. “You’ll just have to do all the work.”

“For _someone’s_ sake, angel,” Crowley gasps, and kisses him again, a little wildly.

* * *

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s statement as an order and won’t even let Aziraphale help prepare him. Instead, he straddles Aziraphale, knees braced on either side of his thighs, one arm bent behind him to work himself open, the other wrapped around Aziraphale’s cock, slick with lubricant.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale pleads feverishly. The sheets are a cool slide against his overheated skin. His whole body feels like an exposed nerve, throbbing in equal parts pain and pleasure.

Crowley hums, watching him through hooded eyes. “I don’t know, angel. I rather like this view.”

Aziraphale twists his hands in the sheets, biting his lower lip and not knowing how to ask for more. He feels embarrassingly inexperienced. The image above him—the promise of something more, along with Crowley’s clever hand, is an exquisite torture, but he wants—he wants—

“Alright, darling,” Crowley murmurs, reading his desire. He positions Aziraphale’s cock and then sinks down on him with a quiet hiss. For a moment, they both remain still, adjusting to the feeling of coming together so completely. Aziraphale has to squeeze his eyes shut at the sensation of being so thoroughly connected to Crowley. He’s felt nothing like it before. _Nothing_ can compare to this intimacy. He’d always wondered what the big fuss was over sex; it always seemed so—so unsanitary, but he now understands why some humans dedicate their entire lives to writing epic poetry about carnal desires.

“Yeah,” Crowley murmurs, as if agreeing with Aziraphale’s disordered thoughts. He lays a shivery hand over Aziraphale’s wildly beating heart, bracing himself.

And then he _moves_, lifting his hips up and bringing them down again in a sinuous roll, and Aziraphale has to grab his waist to hold on for dear life. He keeps the pace torturously slow, watching Aziraphale with half-lidded eyes. Aziraphale tries to drive up into him, to increase the speed, but Crowley presses down on his chest. 

“Let me take care of you, angel,” he murmurs.

The words strike Aziraphale so solidly in the heart that he immediately does the opposite, pushing himself into a seated position. Crowley’s knobbly knees draw up, his arms coming around his shoulders in a tight embrace. Aziraphale slides his hand down until he’s cupping Crowley’s ass, taking control of the rhythm. 

“Fuck,” Crowley groans, digging his fingers into Aziraphale’s back. “Oh, _fuck_, angel. You’re fucking brilliant, you know that? I—” He cuts off with a groan as Aziraphale fucks into him, then presses gasping kisses into Aziraphale’s neck. 

This. This is what Aziraphale has been missing for six thousand years. Had Crowley slithered over to the Eastern Gate instead of the Western, perhaps Aziraphale’s life wouldn’t have been so lonely. But now that Aziraphale has this, has _Crowley_, he’s not about to give him up any time soon. He presses his face into the crook of Crowley’s neck, breathing him in. 

_Let me be selfish_, he thinks. _Let me have just this_. He kisses down the side of Crowley’s face to his lips, pressing the longing and the desire into the corner of his mouth in a lingering kiss, trying to tell Crowley what he means to him without words

Crowley gasps into the kiss like he’s been struck, then makes a wild, bitten off sound, his hips jerking erratically, squeezing so tightly around Aziraphale’s cock that _Aziraphale_ loses control. He thrusts up into him, then digs his fingers into the strong muscles of his ass, holding him in place as his orgasm is rent out of him. It’s the same incomprehensible bliss as flying, as letting himself drop into a jubilant freefall before spiraling up again, into the sun. 

Crowley curses, rolling his hips through Aziraphale’s orgasm. He scrambles to grab Aziraphale’s face between shaky hands, staring down into Aziraphale’s stunned eyes, and then he kisses him desperately, ardently, pouring all of his overwhelming _adoration_ for Aziraphale into the kiss as he finds his own release.

* * *

“Wow,” says Crowley, several minutes later. They’re stretched out next to each other on Aziraphale’s bed, still a little sex-drunk.

“That was—” says Aziraphale.

“Yeah.”

The candles have burned down the the quick, casting a soft orange glow over the room. Crowley absently waves a hand and they flicker out. He pushes at Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“What—?” says Aziraphale, confused.

“Turn over.”

Aziraphale complies even though he’s not sure what Crowley wants, rolling onto his good side. “If you want another round, I’m afraid it might have to wait until tomorrow morning,” Aziraphale says apologetically. “I’m quite done in, my”—he hesitates, then says, daringly, “my darling.”

“I know,” says Crowley, then slides in close behind him, wrapping an arm around his chest, resting his hand over his heart. He tangles their legs together, pressing his entire lithe body up behind Aziraphale and tucking his face into the back of his neck.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, then clenches his eyes shut, as if pained.

“Rest, angel,” Crowley murmurs.

* * *

Crowley isn’t in bed with him when he wakes up late the next morning. Aziraphale pushes himself up slowly, his whole body one giant throbbing bruise. Both his wing and his arm burn as if they’re still on fire. He props himself up against the headboard and closes his eyes, miserable. Maybe it really was time to hand the mission to Gabriel. If another high-ranked demon were to come after Desdemona, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to protect her. 

The door to his room swings open. Belatedly remembering that he is very naked, Aziraphale scrambles to grab the blanket to pull over his lap. But it’s Crowley, balancing a tray full of food in one hand and holding a letter with the other.

“How are you feeling?” Crowley asks, setting the tray down on the table, then crawling into bed next to Aziraphale.

“Rather like I’ve been hit by a carriage. That was on fire,” Aziraphale says, smiling at him. Feeling bold, he leans over to kiss him in greeting. When he draws back, Crowley looks a little dazed. “Good morning,” he says.

“Uh,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale grins and would have kissed him again, maybe see what more his injured body would be up to doing, but the letter in Crowley’s hand catches his attention. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Crowley says, distracted. “Say, angel—”

But Aziraphale’s focused on the letter. He plucks it from Crowley’s hand and shucks it open.

“Oh,” he says, brightly. “It’s from Desdemona.”

“_Desdemona_,” hisses Crowley.

Aziraphale snorts and pokes his side. “Oh, what are you so jealous about, you foolish old serpent. As if it isn’t obvious that you’re the one I—” He cuts himself off, embarrassed, and drops his eyes back to the letter.

“That you what?” says Crowley, softly.

Aziraphale braves a look at him out of the corner of his eye. He’s watching Aziraphale, a tentative smile on his lips.

“That I want to be with,” says Aziraphale, matter-of-factly, though he still can’t look at Crowley straight on. “For a rather long time, I’m afraid. Likely forever, if you’ll have me.”

Crowley is very still beside him, but then he presses himself against Aziraphale’s side, tightly, but still carefully, mindful of Aziraphale’s injuries. “Put the letter to the side.”

“Crowley—” Aziraphale laughs, but complies.

It’s some time before Aziraphale can grab the letter again, rather more rumpled, and with a dazed, delighted grin. Crowley’s hands are still on him, as if he can’t bear to not touch him.

“You’re a menace,” says Aziraphale happily, unfolding the letter.

**My dear Mr Fell,**

**I now understand what our mutual friend meant when she said I would have a guardian angel watching over me. I perfectly understand what you did for Charles and me, and I thank you. Mr Fell, I believe I know what you’re searching for. I regret to inform you that I have never been in possession of the item you seek, although I am intimately acquainted with it, which is why I’m afraid I must depart from London post haste.**

**As our mutual friend predicted (I should have never doubted her) I’m off to elope with Charles. Scandalous, I know! But we felt that it was best that we get out of London as soon as possible. We will be closing up the house, as my parents will be coming with us. After, well, we will see where the winds take us. I only wish I could have said goodbye to you before we left. **

**I do have one message from our mutual friend that I believe she wanted to share with you: Thy time to possess the item thy seeke will come soon, foolish Principalitie. Keep thy new “Friende” clofe, for he will prove Invaluable.**

**I hope this assuages some concerns you may be harboring about the item, and I am sorry that I am not in the position to give you what you seek. **

**I must leave now, but in closing I wish to thank you again for what you have done for me. I hope you will find joy in your long life, which I am persuaded you will. **

**Sincerely yours,  
Desdemona Device**

“What’s it say?” Crowley asks, hooking his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“It seems I’ve failed my mission,” sighs Aziraphale, handing him the letter.

Crowley hums. The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Very nice. I like the quotes.” He folds the letter, smile stretching into a grin. “Invaluable, huh. You heard the lady, best keep me clofe, foolish Principality.”

Aziraphale rolls over, slinging himself onto Crowley’s chest.

“Don’t damage the goods, I’m _invaluable_!” Crowley yelps, then bursts into startled laughter when Aziraphale flattens himself on top of him.

Invaluable, indeed.

**Epilogue**

“Hurry up, angel,” says Crowley, glancing over his shoulder. They’re strolling casually through London, enjoying the fine late summer day. Most of society has left for the country and the streets are thin of traffic. 

It’s been two months since his fight with Hastur. Michael had magnanimously let him keep the house while he recovered. She hasn’t said it in so many words, but Aziraphale can tell that she’s impressed he managed to smite a Duke of Hell. He even received a Commendation, even though he, theoretically, failed his mission.

Under Crowley’s attentive care, his injuries are healing nicely, if slowly. His arm is still wrapped in a bandage, but the wound has faded into a jagged red mark. His wing is also healing cleanly, and new pin feathers are already coming in around the new scar.

Still white, so he supposes She’s not that mad at him for all his recent—indiscretions.

As promised, Gabriel took over the mission, but when Aziraphale last checked in, Heaven was at a dead end. Crowley assured him Hell was in the same boat. Thank God. Hopefully, Desdemona and Charles are as far as they can possibly be from London, enjoying their lives to the fullest.

Aziraphale has been, at least. Although now that the mission is over, Crowley is sometimes called away. He always comes back as quickly as possible, usually with a long story that leaves Aziraphale equally disapproving and amused. They have to be more careful, too. Aziraphale knows his time at this house is short; once Hastur is strong enough, he’ll surely come back to Earth for his revenge. But for now, even with the lingering pain and the looming threat, Aziraphale is ridiculously, deliriously happy.

Crowley had actually just returned from a mission when he’d burst into the house and bustled Aziraphale off the chair he’d been resting on, insisting that it was too beautiful a day to be a lazy lay-about. They’d been enjoying a quiet stroll when Crowley had suddenly sprung forward like a panther on the scent of something scrummy.

“What’s the hurry?” Aziraphale asks, when Crowley practically bounds back to him. He links his arm through Aziraphale’s and drags him forward. “Good heavens, Crowley,” says Aziraphale, stumbling after him, lifting one hand to keep his hat in place.

“Come on, come on,” says Crowley, excitedly. 

“I can assure you that whatever you’re rushing to see will still be there when…” He trails off when Crowley stops them in front of a familiar facade. Aziraphale stares at the building, then back at Crowley.

Who is holding up a key.

“Crowley?” says Aziraphale, voice coming out small.

“Hastur wasn’t the only one who followed you.” Crowley’s smile drops a little. “Wait, that sounds creepy. Uh. Well. Anyway.” He thrusts the key at Aziraphale, nearly whacking him in the nose. Aziraphale takes it with a trembling hand. “Go on.”

Aziraphale shuffles a hesitant step towards the door to the empty shop—the shop that he had been dreaming about for years, the home he so desperately wants. He lifts the key and pauses, hand wavering slightly. 

“Go on, go on!” says Crowley eagerly.

Aziraphale slots the key into the lock, and the door opens with a click. He gasps, then has to lift a hand to wipe the corner of his eye.

“Oh, _Crowley._”

Crowley touches his elbow, and Aziraphale whirls around and flings his arms around him.

“Thank you,” he says, voice thick.

“Ugh. Angel emotions,” teases Crowley, but he raises his own arms to hug Aziraphale back just as tightly, before gently pushing him away. “Come on, come on. Go check out your new shop! You know you want to.”

The shop is everything Aziraphale dreamed it would be: covered in dust, with a prevailing scent of mildew, and horrible natural lighting. The wood floors are warped and protest every time someone makes any sudden movements. The walls are stained and cracked from where the rain has leaked through. Attached to the main shop is a small back room where Aziraphale can store his desk, and up a narrow stairwell Aziraphale finds a cramped hallway that leads to another set of dingy rooms. A rat, startled from its repose, scurries across the room, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

It’s perfect. It’s bloody _perfect_.

Crowley is waiting for him back in the main part of the shop, hands dug into his pockets, grinning with a mix of self-satisfaction and something joyful and sweet, as if all the happiness is spilling out of Aziraphale and into him. The light from one dusty window catches on the dust motes around him, surrounding him with a glowing aura. Aziraphale stares at him, filled with stunned wonder, his heart beating steadily in his chest, his breath catching in his throat.

So this is what it feels like to fall hopelessly in love.

It’s not a new feeling. Rather, it’s familiar, like it’s happened before, like he’s falling in love with Crowley all over again. It’s just that he’s now found the name for the emotion.

Crowley’s expression softens. One corner of his mouth curves in a smile. “What is it? You just got the dopiest look on your face right now.”

Aziraphale barks out a laugh, then strides across the room and grabs Crowley’s face with both his hands, planting a kiss on his lips. When he pulls back, Crowley gives him that dazed look he always gets after Aziraphale kisses him.

“There,” says Aziraphale, grinning at him. “Now you look dopey as well.”

Crowley’s expression clears, and he laughs, and looks terribly fond. “Come on, angel. There’s a great bottle of champagne waiting for us in the back room,” he says, linking their hands together and pulling him excitedly through the shop. Aziraphale squeezes his hand tightly and falls a bit more in love with every step: with the bookshop, with the world, and above all, with Crowley.


End file.
